


Hot Men, Unmasked

by castielrisingabove



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Batman - Freeform, DC comics - Freeform, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, M/M, Nightwing - Freeform, Red Hood - Freeform, Superheroes, implied past Castiel/Meg - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-28 17:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 43,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12612020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castielrisingabove/pseuds/castielrisingabove
Summary: Castiel’s a superhero who just wants to make his big break. When he stumbles upon an attractive anti-hero, he’s left with a choice: turn him in, or work together to solve a crime bigger than both of them.





	1. Up and At'em Engineer

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by Jensen Ackle’s performance in DC’s Under the Red Hood. That said, you don’t gotta know anything about Batman to enjoy this fic. Seriously. I don't even know much about the DC Universe. 
> 
> A million thanks to my artist, [thepoette](https://thepoette.tumblr.com/), and my fantastic beta and tireless cheerleader [soluscheese](soluscheese.tumblr.com). Seriously, I don't know what I would have done without them.

 

Castiel was awoken _far_ too early by a phone call; the chittering bat ringtone letting him know that Michael, or _Batman_ as the rest of the world knew him, was on the other end. The ringtone had seemed funny when Castiel originally set it, but it turned out to be fairly annoying, especially when used to rouse him from a mere three hours of rest. With a groan, Cas poked his head out of his comfortable nest of blankets, groping for the phone.

“Do you even sleep?” Cas croaked grumpily, turning the phone on speaker as he forced the rest of his body out of the warm blanket pile. He shivered slightly at the rush of cold air. Spending so little time in the apartment, Cas often forgot to turn up the heat to combat the fall weather. The leaves were already falling, snow would follow soon enough.

It was not exactly “stand around the apartment naked” weather anymore.

“There’s been a bombing of an abandoned warehouse,” Michael announced, skipping over any of the civilities as Castiel hopped over to his small dresser to extract a clean pair of underwear. His bedroom, much like the rest of the apartment, was pretty bare bones. Castiel had grown up with few belongings, and it had translated into adulthood. Still, what he was lacking in quantity, he made up for in quality. Michael had courteously paid for an apartment with new appliances, nice hardwood floors and, most importantly, a view.

“You know,” Cas said, oozing snark as he shimmied the underwear up his muscled legs, “That could just be scheduled demolition. Maybe they’re trying to finally attract the tourists like the mayor promised.”

The recent rebranding attempt had done little to sway public perception of the crime-ridden city, but the odd, 50s themed billboards that had appeared across the skyline always made for a good laugh.

Cas tugged on his suit, made up of a tough but skin-tight material, up his chest. It was primarily black, with a bright blue winged feature spanning across his chest and up his shoulders. The color brought out his own blue eyes. These sorts of personalized touches really helped Castiel feel like he was coming into his own with the superhero identity of Nightwing. When he was Batman’s _second_ Robin a few years earlier, there had been baggage; not to mention the fact he’d had to wear a _cape_.

“In the Metal District?” Michael asked gruffly, succinct as always.

Usually problems in the abandoned factories of the Metal District boiled down to gang warfare, but a bombing of that caliber was out of the norm. Cas slid his arms into his uniform with a groan. “And here I was thinking I’d have a relaxed day. Reprimand some youth for jaywalking. Take out a shoplifter here or there, maybe even catch a burglar if I was feeling up to it.”

“Crime never rests,” Michael deadpanned. Such a statement might have been funny if said in the right tone, but Michael was rarely one to joke. Michael blamed it on ‘the grim truth of responsibility’ but Cas was plenty responsible and at least he managed to be witty from time to time.

“I’m aware,” Cas yawned widely, tugging on his gloves as he made his way into the kitchen, though the living area turned out to be even colder than the bedroom. Sunlight streamed through the living room windows, which spanned from floor to ceiling to provide a truly stunning glimpse of Gotham. This made up for the cold the windows invariably let into the already chilly apartment.

While Castiel’s suit certainly warmed with vigorous physical activity, it wasn’t much protection from the cold in regular, not crime-related situations. “Could it wait enough for coffee?”

Though he was a tea person by night, Castiel most definitely a coffee drinker by day, even going so far as to invest in a fancy coffee maker--the sort that could be programmed to pre-brew his coffee before he woke up, if he so desired. When Michael (or Batman, Castiel still wasn’t sure what he was supposed to call him, though he’d learned by unfortunate mistake not to call him ‘Dad’) wasn’t calling him with some emergency, Castiel relied on coffee in the morning to make him a reasonable person, rather than a total grump.

With Michael, he was usually fine being a little less than pleasant, but this morning was _cold_.

There was a loud sigh on the other end. “Will it be done by the time I get there?”

“You speed,” Cas complained, rushing over to his coffee maker to start prepping a new pot. The machine worked fast, but Michael tended to drive faster.

“There was a bombing.”

“Which means you’re already halfway here, aren’t you?” Still, Castiel opened his near-empty cabinet, oscillating between his favorite mug (adorned with a fat little robin sleeping in a nest) and a disposable paper cup. He settled on the paper cup.

“I repeat, there was a bombing.”

Castiel paused. “Does this mean you’d like me to make you coffee too?”

Silence fell, punctuated by the crackling of the line for a moment, then-- “Yes, please.”

Castiel bit back a chuckle as he grabbed a second paper cup from the cabinet. The coffee machine beeped and Castiel filled both cups nearly to the brim with ease. If he wasn’t a crime fighting vigilante, he’d probably do fairly well for himself as a barista.

Well, except for the talking to people part. He could riff off Michael fairly well, but in general, his people skills were relatively rusty. Fighting crime didn’t usually involve much small talk. He had just finished putting the tops onto the cups when Michael announced, “I’m here. Don’t make me circle the block.”

Cas snickered as hung up. All that was left to get ready was his mask, which he raced back into the bedroom to grab. The mask, black and bat-shaped, fitted across his eyes and cheekbones. Of all the uniform, the mask was the most important thing. It kept his identity safe and made him part of something bigger. With the mask, he was no longer Castiel, but Nightwing, crime-fighting superhero.

Now ready, he balanced both cups in one hand so he could open and close the apartment door. He even locked it, knowing full well how ironic it would be if someone actually broke into a crime fighter’s apartment. Not that there was much to steal. A hammock served as Castiel’s equivalent of a couch, strung out nicely in his living area, and the kitchen was haphazardly stocked with healthy foods (including Castiel’s coveted collection of honey).

The only other defining feature was a large oak bookshelf stuffed to the brim with books. That had been a house-warming gift from Michael, though it was more of a regift, given the bookshelf, and books, which ranged from Vonnegut to _Calvin and Hobbes_ , used to reside in his mansion. In the years Castiel had lived there with Michael, he’d not once seen him touch the books. Castiel hadn’t either. Perhaps it was the wide berth Michael typically gave the bookshelf, or the thick layer of dust that had accumulated on the books themselves, but the shelf never seemed like it was _his_ to touch.

There was something sad about the fact the nicest thing in his apartment was a shelf of books he refused to touch. Still, better safe than sorry. Once the door was securely locked, he switched one cup of coffee to his free hand and sprinted to the fire escape. It was not the ideal way to leave the building, especially with two fresh cups of coffee, but Castiel had grown skilled at being able to slide down the rusty ladders without even spilling a drop. Besides, sacrifices had to be made to preserve his secret identity; Castiel was more likely to run into someone in the apartment lobby than the alleyway the fire escape lead into.

Landing gracefully, he vaulted over a dumpster, cups still held steady as he rounded the corner of the alley to find the Batmobile parked in the middle of the street. Michael swung the passenger door open, glowering at Castiel from beneath his dark cowl. Batman’s mask was larger and more intimidating than Castiel’s, but it was fitting, given Michael’s intense desire to put the “bat” in “Batman.”

It was moments like this that Castiel could hardly believe _he_ was Batman’s go-to sidekick. And Castiel couldn’t deny it: he _loved_ being Nightwing. After all, he’d always wanted to help people, and Batman’s code of morality lined up well with his own--he didn’t want to be a killer. Plus, Castiel would be lying if he said he didn’t like the way his tight hero suit showed off his well-toned ass.

Sure, being the second Robin had always left some mystery between him and Michael, but Castiel was always one to put the mission first. Obedience was something he’d learned well in his past life (one Castiel was desperate to put far behind him) and it was something Batman appreciated. Such appreciation, Castiel had learned quickly, was hard to come by; he’d been struggling to earn Batman’s full approval since his first day. The first Robin had died, leaving shoes Castiel could never quite fill.

“I’ve held up traffic,” Michael announce gravely, nodding at the two cars lined up behind the Batmobile, a dauntingly dark car so large it might as well be called a tank.

“I think they’ll live,” Castiel replied drily, handing Michael a cup of coffee as he settled into the passenger seat. Unlike the rest of the Batcave, the Batmobile had been designed with comfort in mind, and Cas happily strapped himself in, wincing only slightly as he took a sip of his coffee.

“Why does this seem especially bitter?” Michael asked, taking a sip as he pulled away from the apartment complex.

“I thought you liked everything dark,” Cas replied, “You once described Hamlet as a comedy.”

“Not this again,” Michael groaned, “Isn’t it too early in the morning for your humor?”

Cas laughed, taking another sip of the bitter coffee. “Don’t you know?” he smirked, “There was a bombing.” Even confined by the seat belt, he was able to nimbly dodge the punch Michael aimed at his shoulder.

 

\---

 

One of the big perks about taking the Batmobile was that traffic yielded to them even better than it yielded to ambulances or police cars. This was likely in part to the fact the Batmobile had hit more than its fair share of cars during chases and word of possible damages traveled fast. Despite it being the usual rush hour traffic, they zoomed down the roads like it was 2 AM on a Tuesday.

It was with great skill that Castiel managed to keep even a single drop of coffee from spilling from his cup, but he’d had years of practice. The first time he’d tried to drink something in the Batmobile had been disastrous. Now, he slugged back the full cup before they even reached the scene of the crime.

“Did you discover any intel on Red Hood?” Michael asked while they sped along.

Red Hood, a relatively new player in Gotham’s criminal underbelly, was making quite an impression. Identified only by the red metal helmet he wore to obscure his head and face, Red Hood didn’t seem to have an easily trackable M.O. He _did_ , however, get results. Lower-level crime bosses were disappearing right and left and the common criminals who were unaffiliated with the gangs were starting to lay low.

Honestly, the decrease of general crime wasn’t half bad. The only problem? Red Hood left a trail of bodies in his wake. And, as far as both Michael and Castiel were concerned, that simply wouldn’t do. Michael insisted that allowing a murderer walk free was too high a price for the relative calm Red Hood had managed to create, so Castiel had been sent to track him down.

At the question, Castiel squirmed uncomfortably in his seat.

The night before, Castiel _had_ caught sight of Red Hood. He wore thick combat boots, a weathered leather jacket and, yes, the striking metallic face mask Castiel had heard so much about. He looked terrifying...and yet, only a night before, Castiel had watched as he’d saved a young girl from her abusive father. Red Hood had shielded her from harm, comforted her and even left her with one of his knives to protect herself.

But he’d also shot her father point-blank and escaped before Castiel could apprehend him.

Michael sighed, a frown already visible from under his mask. “If the police reports were accurate, Red Hood killed a man. Were you aware of this?”

Castiel hesitated a moment before answering. “I saw that, yes.”

“And you let him?”

“It’s not that simple--”

“Castiel, we’ve discussed this,” Michael growled. Although he was a few inches shorter than Castiel, the way he held himself, compounded with the bat costume, made him appear much more intimidating. “It’s actually _quite_ simple. If Red Hood killed a man, he is a murderer.”

All Castiel could picture was Red Hood, a small girl clinging to his leg, staunchly defending her.

Doubt crept into his mind, but the sound of gunfire brought the conversation to an abrupt end as they rounded the corner. Ahead of them sat the site of the bombing. The factory was smoking heavily, half of it caved in. Along one wall, which was rapidly being engulfed in flames, was graffiti of a skeletal horse.

“Someone bombed one of the Horsemen?” Cas asked, surprised. The Four Horseman gang was one of the most well-known gangs in the city. Unlike other criminal operations which specialized in one aspect of crime, The Four Horsemen had a wide range of skillsets, anything from money laundering to assassination.

Batman and the police had been targeting them for years, of course, but by and large, The Four Horsemen appeared to stay out of gang warfare. Part of the reason they managed to thrive at all was due to their many truces and alliances to other organizations. Of all the factories to be bombed, this was the most unlikely.

Meaning the culprit was either stupid or downright insane.

The gunfire increased in intensity as they drew closer. Castiel pressed a small button on the edge of his mask, turning on heat vision as he scoped out the number of combatants, their warm bodies showing up a bright orange against the otherwise purple landscape. A quick scan revealed at least ten, some on rooftops, some tucked in nearby buildings, though Cas still couldn’t see which particular factions were in the fight.

“Are we sure this is a good idea?” Castiel asked, though he was already mentally preparing for a brawl. He discarded the coffee cup, feeling for the holsters where he usually kept his escrima sticks, sleek batons specially outfitted with tasers, at the ready. They were the perfect weapon, sturdy enough to pack a punch, but not powerful enough to kill someone.

“Leaving it unresolved will only stoke the fires of an impending gang war,” Michael responded darkly. “If nothing else, we need to figure out what happened.”

A bullet _pinged_ off the passenger side of the car as they zoomed right into the fight, essentially cutting off any possible concerns Castiel might have had. He didn’t have any disagreements with the plan itself, though Castiel had to admit charging headfirst into a gunfight wasn’t exactly the most comforting strategy.

Still, there wasn’t much time to think, as they were already plunged fully into the nightmare. “Jettison me,” Cas said abruptly, pulling out his escrima sticks to have them at the ready.

A moment later, he was flying from his seat, rocketing out an opening in the Batmobile’s roof and out towards a gunman on a nearby building. It was really a credit to Michael’s trust in Castiel that he sent him out into the fray without question. Well, that or perhaps a worrisome battle mentality. Castiel was never entirely sure.

And there was no time to puzzle it out, either. Gravity was sending him plummeting down towards the rooftop. It turned out there were at least three men, all from the Horsemen faction judging by the horse silhouette insignia on their jacket sleeves. One looked out off the roof, shooting a rifle. The other two seemed to be guarding the doorway to keep intruders from coming from below.

They weren’t expecting an attack from above.

Castiel tucked into a roll, hitting the roof with little resistance. The noise drew the attention of the men, but it was already too late, Castiel knocking one of the guards unconscious with his escrima stick. Another hit sent the pistol plummeting out of the other guard’s hand, which Castiel quickly kicked out of the way.

“Who did this?” Castiel growled, pressing an escrima stick to the guard’s throat.

“I’ll shoot!”

By now, the man who’d been aiming off the roof had his attention drawn to the scene. He aimed his rifle at Castiel, who sighed. Of course it could never be simple. With a flick of his wrist, his escrima sticks crackled with electricity. He sent one colliding with the unarmed guard’s arm, sending the man down with a cry.

There was another shot of gunfire, this time aimed in his general direction, though Castiel dodged it nimbly, allowing all his other senses to blur out as he set his sights on the man with the gun. He moved fluidly, body arching backwards as he slid on his knees to dodge a second bullet, sending his escrima sticks colliding with the final man’s legs.

With all three incapacitated, Castiel stood to his feet, pressing one boot onto the chest of the man. He kept the escrima sticks on (past experience taught him it was better safe than sorry), towering over the man with the rifle. “Now I think you’re ready to answer,” he said, “What gang did this?”

“He said he wasn’t a gang,” the man said, squirming pointlessly under Castiel. Meanwhile, the gunfire raged on.

“What was he?”

“Boss called him Red Hood, said he was dangerous. That’s all I know!” the man squirmed again, clearly trying to ham up his own discomfort. That always made Castiel laugh a little, such vagrant misunderstanding of Michael’s principles. True, he wasn’t going to kill someone, but Castiel wasn’t averse to causing some pain. Heaven knew the criminals deserved it.

“Who are you fighting, then?”

“Nobody!”

“I saw other men--”

There was an unmistakable rush of air near Castiel’s ear. Evidently the guard had managed to pull himself upright after being shocked and was trying to fight back. “Close,” Castiel said as he ducked the punch, still keeping one foot firmly pressed on the man on the ground, “But you’re lacking a spark,” he sent the crackling escrima stick into the small of the man’s back as he twirled around, “of creativity.”

The man was sent sprawling again and Castiel smirked as he blew on his escrima stick in a faux western style. “Now,” he said, turning his focus back to the man under his foot, who looked terrified (and quite rightly so), “About those other men?”

“A f-few Demons showed up after the bombing,” he said, referencing another extremely powerful criminal organization, “But they joined forces with us. Said they were already hunting this Red Hood.”

Unusual. Of all the factions, the Demons were the most aggressive; most would not hesitate to take out anyone not a part of their organization if even remotely threatened. If they were teaming up with the Horsemen, Red Hood must have been causing more trouble than he and Michael had initially anticipated. In addition to taking down a Horsemen crime hub, which was no small feat in and of itself, he’d gone so far as to evade both the Horsemen and the Demons. Still, from the sounds of it, Red Hood was just one man. And nobody could run forever.

It seemed tracking down Red Hood was Castiel’s new objective.

“Thank you for the intel,” Cas said, sending one final shock into the man on the ground to give himself ample time to escape from the rooftop unscathed, “And remember!” he added cheerfully, tucking away one escrima stick to ready a grappling hook, “Don’t drink and drive!”

He stood on the edge of the roof, scanning the scene. Below, Michael was taking on a half dozen Horsemen members, a number that would be worrisome for anyone _but_ Batman. A woman in motion caught his eye on a rooftop ahead of him. He watched as she sprinted in the opposite direction, leaping off the edge and smashing through the window of a building just past the burning factory.

Using the tech in his mask to zoom in on the scene, Cas saw a crowd grouping around a man he could only surmise, given the leather jacket and flash of metallic red, was Red Hood. At least two of the hostiles looked like Demons, though it was hard to tell for sure. While most Demons tended to wear dark leather, their true defining feature was the near black contact lenses each of the members wore, which Castiel was too far away to see properly. Aside from the two Demons, there were at least four others, all reasonably armed.

Basically, the odds weren’t looking good.

There was a split second of consideration on Castiel’s part, but the answer to “What would Batman Do?” seemed to point towards saving Red Hood. With a groan, Castiel aimed his grappling hook and sent himself flying.

Something told him this ordeal was going to hurt.


	2. Nananananananana Bat Boyyyyy

The downside of charging into a fight was, hands down, the lack of time to plot out a plan. Hurtling through the air, half of Castiel’s efforts were concentrated simply on aiming his trajectory towards the building and dodging the occasional stray bullet. As he felt the line go taut, he disengaged the hook, bracing for a brief moment of free fall before the gun would be ready to fire again.

Castiel loved the sensation of falling. It felt like flying.

As he rapidly drew close to the scene, Castiel could make out at least six forms in the room, one of which was unmistakably Red Hood, who brandished two handguns as the others closed in around him. There were also two leather clad women, both Demons, and three men bearing the Horseman insignia. With one final grappling shot, Castiel sent himself hurtling towards the shattered window, feet colliding firmly with one of the Horsemen.

The room itself was pretty much empty, save for a few leftover buckets of paint, a couple wooden beams and various stacks of tiles spread throughout the floor. Evidently it was in the process of being remodeled, though after this it would need to be remodeled again.

Castiel’s arrival seemed to spur everyone else into action. Red Hood fired a couple rounds, sending a second Horseman falling to the ground. Unfortunately, it left one Horseman and two leather clad members who, at this point, Castiel was almost certain were Demons.

The man he’d collided with twisted, grabbing for Castiel’s ankle. Castiel dodged, but it was enough for the man to pull himself upright and send a punch in Cas’ direction. Great. He just _had_ to have one that wasn’t going down easy.

Meanwhile, Red Hood dodged as one of the Demons, a blonde, opened fire on him. Unfortunately, in avoiding the blonde’s volley, he wasn’t prepared to defend himself from a brunette Demon, who sent a fist solidly into his gut. Red Hood retaliated with a strong kick, sending the brunette skidding backwards. Her lips twisted into a grin, black eyes flashing ominously.

Castiel gracefully dodged the man’s punch, gripping him by the wrist and spinning him around, sending him flying in the direction of the brunette Demon with a cheerful cry of “Fore!”

The man stumbled into the Demon, giving Red Hood the opportunity to send a solid kick in his chest. Both the man and the Demon fell down. “Hey, Bat Boy,” Red Hood snapped, his voice so low it sent shivers down Castiel’s spine, “You’re aware I could take them all on my own, right?”

He ducked as the blonde fired another round in his direction, one bullet skimming his red helmet with a loud _ding_. Glancing between the two sprawled on the floor and the Demon actively firing a gun, Castiel moved in the direction of the woman still fighting, escrima stick crackling.

Upon closer inspection, Castiel could make out the features of the woman’s face. And it wasn’t just any woman. It was _Meg_. He groaned. Their history was...complicated. And that was putting it lightly.

“How’d you end up on the wrong side of town, Clarence?” Meg asked cheerfully as Castiel approached, “This isn’t exactly your fight.”

“I’ve got orders,” Castiel replied, “I’m going to need you to stand down.”

“You two _know_ each other?” Red Hood snapped, pulling a rifle from seemingly out of nowhere to aim at Meg.

“Only in the Biblical sense,” Meg smirked, grabbing another handgun from a holster on her thigh to aim at Red Hood.

“We’re acquaintances,” Castiel amended with a sharp glare in Meg’s direction. He’d saved her life, she’d saved his...now neither of them could quite figure out if they were even yet. Unfortunately, his glare seemed to be ineffective, as neither Meg or Red Hood stood down.

Of all the things he’d done on the job, trying to figure out a cease fire between a Demon contact and a criminal Batman was obsessed with catching was quickly stacking up to be one of the strangest. He tugged the second escrima stick from his belt, bringing them both crackling to life. “Don’t make me use these.”

“Clarence, if you wanted to shock me with your stick, you could have just asked nicely,” Meg smirked, even going so far as to _wink_ at him. Ridiculous. People would get the wrong idea if she kept that up.

“Wait. Do you work for Batman or are you just a smart criminal?” Red Hood interjected before Castiel could reprimand her.

“You think I’m a criminal?” Cas snapped, focus drawn away from the situation at hand for a moment as he turned to gape at Red Hood, “You kill people!”

“And a Demon is flirting with you,” Red Hood shrugged, “Looks pretty suspicious to me, is all I’m saying.”

Cas groaned as Meg snickered. “You know I could taze you both, right?”

Naturally, both pivoted to aim their guns at Castiel. Nearby, the other Demon stirred.

“Not gonna be long before Ruby’s up,” Meg said, nodding towards her fallen companion, “If I were you, Clarence, I’d split before she gets her wits about her. Wash your hands of whatever bloodbath follows.”

“I need Red Hood alive.”

“Ouch, nothing about me?” Meg crooned, “I’m hurt.”

“What makes you think I’m coming with you, anyway?” Red Hood asked, his expression unreadable through the mask. “Full offense, Bat Boy, but nothing about you screams trustworthy.”

“I dunno,” Meg mused, “I think I can trust that ass is really that perky.”

“ _Meg_ ,” Cas snapped. The other Demon, Ruby, moved again.

Meg sighed. “Look, Clarence, I’d love to hand him off to you, but our fearless leader’s got one hell of a bounty on Red Head here and after the damage he’s done to our gang, I wouldn’t mind being the one to off him.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” Red Hood muttered.

“Meg. Please. After everything?”

“I let those two little kids walk _right_ out of that fire for you, Clarence! Two of ‘em! What have you done for me?”

“Aside from tip you off before the last Batman raid?”

“Yeah, well, Batman’s here _now_ and you’re brandishing your electric sex toys at me!”

Castiel glared down at his escrima sticks. He’d chosen the weapons when he was younger, unaware of the dirty jokes that could follow. Now that he _knew_ , it was far too late to replace them--he was stuck with the sparky innuendos.

Before he could respond to Meg, however, Red Hood brandished his rifle. “Look, this is cute and all, but I came here to kick criminal ass and I intend--”

He trailed off in incoherent speech, however, tumbling to the floor with a loud thud. A small dart protruded from his upper thigh. Slowly, Castiel turned to see Ruby, still laying on the ground, who’d somehow managed to pull a blowgun from her jacket. For a moment, the room seemed to freeze as Castiel considered his options, then--

Another dart came whistling past his ear.

With Ruby still lying prone, it didn’t take much to incapacitate her. By the time he’d made it to Ruby’s side, she was barely up on her feet, still swaying as she tried to right herself. It did not work, and Castiel made quick work of sending an electrical shock into her system. As she fell, he decided to shock the fallen Horseman just for good measure.

When Castiel looked up, it was to find Meg struggling to drag Red Hood across the floor by his feet.

“What was this about killing him?” he asked, holstering one of his escrima stick and powering the second down, “Or did you want a workout first?”

Meg huffed. “Boss is offering a higher price for him alive.”

Cas watched her struggle with some amusement, Red Hood’s metallic head clanging loudly against every small obstacle that stood in her way. “You do realize you’re going to have to hand him off to me, right?”

He was met with a fierce glare. “You know, just because I can’t drag 180 pounds of dead weight doesn’t mean I can’t kick your ass.”

As much as he hated to admit it, she had a point. Cas paused, sliding his second escrima stick into its holster. Having a tentative Demon ally wasn’t the _worst_ thing in the world, right? Besides, there were two ways he could procure Red Hood and one of them was certain to hurt much less than the other.

“I’ll owe you one,” Castiel said abruptly as Meg managed to reach the doorway.

There was a sharp intake of breath. And for good reason. Despite all their tentative truces, neither one had officially made a statement like this. _I owe you_ ran the risk of having to fill an especially dangerous favor, but trying to fight Meg ran the risk of her simply killing Red Hood to have her way.

Meg paused, still holding Red Hood a couple inches above the dirty floor. It wouldn’t be long before Ruby was back up, and neither of them wanted her involved. “Dunno if a Clarence favor is really worth 100 grand,” she said, voice straining as she tried to be casual.

“Could save your life one day.”

Ruby stirred and Castiel readied an escrima stick just in case. Normally he’d have tied them up by now, but Red Hood was his top priority. If it meant leaving a few loose ends, so be it. Castiel caught Meg's eyes, peering into the black depths. Meg tried to look strong for a moment, then groaned, shoulders slumping as she dropped Red Hood to the floor with a clunk.

"Fine, Clarence," she sighed, "But you're going to owe me one hell of a favor!"

Castiel sighed with relief, flicking off the escrima stick as he approached Red Hood. "How long does the tranquilizer last, anyway?"

Meg shrugged. "That was more of Ruby's gig. But I'd wager you have about fifteen minutes, to be on the safe side."

Castiel stared down at the man. His leather jacket was rumpled and covered in bits of debris. The red mask was barely scuffed, and only by the bullet that had scraped past the forehead portion. It was impressively strong material, something not just anyone would be able to get their hands on. This guy was not his run-of-the-mill criminal, that was for sure.

"And you're certain you have no idea who's behind this guy?" Castiel asked Meg, scooping Red Hood over his shoulder into a fireman's carry. Fifteen minutes wasn't a lot, but it could be enough to at least get him into the Batmobile. Maybe. Truthfully, Castiel wasn't entirely sure any of his grappling hooks could hold this much weight--after all, the man was certainly well built and Castiel wasn't exactly small.

"You know me," Meg shrugged, "The boss says jump and I say how high. No point complicating the relationship."

Castiel didn't bother to point out the flaw in her argument, especially as he saw Ruby stir a bit more. Meg noticed too. "Better get your ass out of here, Clarence," she said, "I'm not gonna save you again."

"You didn't save me before," Cas rolled his eyes, pocketing his escrima stick to switch out for his heavy duty grappling hook. It took some effort to climb back to the window, but he was strong. With a final salute to Meg, Castiel aimed the grappling hook, sending it sailing across the road to another building. Then, without a backwards glance, he jumped.

Very quickly in the descent, it became very clear that something was wrong. He'd taken a gamble with the rope and, judging by the rapid free-fall, it wasn't going to end well. Quickly, Castiel hooked the end of the rope to his utility belt, allowing the gun portion to fall to his side. Keeping his other hand on Red Hood, Castiel pulled his other grappling hook from his belt, firing the bolt blindly in an attempt to slow the rate of their fall.

The hook smashed through another factory window, a bit lower than Castiel would have liked, but still enough to keep them from hurtling straight into the ground. Unfortunately, the second shot flew in a direction perpendicular to the first, halting their progress towards the Batmobile. They screeched to a halt some ten feet above the alley between two buildings. Here amidst distant gunfire, they were sitting ducks. Castiel needed to get them somewhere safer. Now.

With a groan, he disengaged his second hook, reeling it back towards him. They both flew forwards a ways, skidding into a pile of rubble from the destroyed factory. Castiel lost his grip on Red Hood, sending him toppling down the pieces of concrete.

"Gotta work on my landing," Castiel muttered, unclipping himself from the first wire and dusting himself off. A quick survey of the area revealed only distant life forms, but Castiel knew as soon as Ruby roused (if she hadn’t already) she'd be in hot pursuit.

Unfortunately, they still had several blocks to go before they reached the Batmobile, and the red-masked dead weight on his back made them a very easy target. Pretty much a recipe for disaster. Another rattle of gunfire forced Castiel's hand as he found himself hefting Red Hood onto his shoulders and dragging him into a nearby building.

The door was easy to break open, revealing a cobwebbed room full of boxes of what appeared to be the Roman-Enterprises owned Leviathan Bites, a sugar cereal line that inexplicably turned the milk into a dark sludge. It was a real testament to the company's failure that, despite leaving the boxes in one of the most crime ridden sectors of the city, the merchandise seemed practically untouched. They weren’t likely to be found inside, so Castiel could catch his breath and formulate a better plan.

Castiel slid Red Hood off his shoulders, leaning him against a pile of boxes to, for the first time, truly examine the man. At first glance, aside from the mask, the man looked very ordinary. A nice leather jacket zipped up over a pair of pants and heavy black combat boots. Curious, Castiel unzipped the jacket. Beneath was, unsurprisingly, a bulletproof chest-plate--but that wasn’t what caught his eye.

Shifting the edges of the jacket aside, Castiel gaped at what appeared to be a red bat insignia plastered across the chest, not unlike the bat symbol used by Michael himself. He stared at the markings, even more confused than before.

He considered calling Michael, but something stopped him. Perhaps it was the knowledge that Michael had a tendency to keep him in the dark, or his own desire to make a name for himself. Regardless, Castiel found himself moving past the insignia to the mask itself.

It had to be removable, after all.

Castiel's fingers moved deftly along the man's neck, searching for a switch that might open the mask. Along the side, close to the base of the neck, was a small switch hidden deep within a crease in the mask, clearly to prevent accidental activation, which Castiel pressed.

There was a hiss as the mask came undone. The mask appeared to come apart in two pieces, a face plate and another surrounding metallic structure. Heart pounding--evidently that aspect of crime fighting would never be decreased with time--Castiel removed the facial section.

Of all the things he expected to see beneath, another red skin-tight mask was not one of them. Especially not one shaped eerily similar to Castiel's own Bat-mask. It spanned across the man’s eyes and cheeks, almost like wings. Fingers trembling, Castiel touched the crimson mask. It was the same material as his own. Could have easily been mistaken for his if it had been black.

What kind of person was this? Who would only impersonate the forces of Batman in private? After all, the symbol on his chest and face were both intentionally obscured, which was odd, given the Bat Symbol could have easily been used to the man's advantage. Castiel was honestly surprised nobody had tried as much before.

A beam of sunlight flashed through one of the half-boarded up windows and lit the man's face. Looking past the Bat-mask, Castiel found the man had extremely handsome features. His cheekbones and jaw were quite chiseled, his lips were full, and a dusting of freckles was barely noticeable spreading from the tip of his nose.

The Adonis before him was so striking, not to mention mysterious, that Castiel found himself half entranced, utterly losing track of the battle outside. It didn't help that the shots were growing more and more infrequent--Batman was doing his job well. The risk of being caught was dwindling by the moment. So Castiel stared, drinking in the gorgeous features of the vigilante, halfheartedly trying to decipher the man's motives.

He hovered briefly over the Bat-mask, considering removing it too, when Red Hood's eyes fluttered opened. For a moment, Castiel was frozen in place, staring at the greenest eyes he'd ever seen. His first coherent thought, strangely, was _why doesn't he choose a green color scheme for his outfit?_

"What the hell is going on?" Red Hood croaked, his voice hoarse as he opened and closed his eyes, trying to get his bearings.

It was at this exact moment, of course, that Castiel grew painfully aware of the fact he had not even attempted to tie Red Hood up. Stupid, rookie mistake. "Who are you?" Castiel asked, hoping at least to have an answer to bring back to Michael, even if he couldn't present him with Red Hood himself.

"Red Hood," the man snapped, shifting to push himself to a sitting position. He brought his hands up to his face, gasping softly as he realized the helmet was gone. “Where’s my faceplate?”

Castiel needed to establish dominance quickly. Time to go for a more intimidating line of questioning. He whipped out both escrima sticks, turning them on with a crackle. "I’m the one asking the questions."

Red Hood chuckled, reaching out for his helmet, which lay nearby on the floor. "Right. And you're totally in a position to demand answers."

With a swift kick, Castiel sent Red Hood back onto the ground. He pressed his boot into Red Hood's chest, trying not to focus on the Bat-symbol beneath. "You've got at least half the gangs in the city out for your blood. Hell, you even have Batman going out of his way to capture you."

"So?" Red Hood smirked at Castiel and it took all of Castiel's will-power not to be distracted by the way his freckled nose crinkled, "That just means I'm more popular than you."

"I'm popular!"

Red Hood laughed so hard his chest actually heaved. "Course you are, Bat Boy. That's why you, a grown man, are not just living in Batman's shadow, but actively doing his dirty work for him. What's next? Licking his boots clean?"

"You don't know anything about me," Castiel replied coldly.

"Right. So that mask is just a cheap knock-off?"

Castiel lowered the escrima stick closer to Red Hood's chest. "I could ask the same about yours."

That comment actually caught the man off guard, his green eyes flicking away from Castiel's as he reached once again for his faceplate. For the briefest moment Castiel even felt bad for the guy before reminding himself that he was a criminal. "I thought so," Castiel added cooly, "So. This will go better if you answer my questions."

A loud boom outside the window caught Castiel's attention. From the sounds of it, the flaming factory had collapsed on itself. Whether or not that also signalled the ending of the fighting would be left to tell, but a quick glance out the doorway at least showed that there weren't any direct threats heading in their direction.

How Red Hood had managed to get a handgun was beyond Castiel, but when he looked down, he was aiming one at Castiel. "I'd love to stay and chat," Red Hood said, "But I think that was my cue to leave."

Castiel leapt out of the way as Red Hood fired, catching himself in a roll as Red Hood pushed to his feet, tugging a second gun from inside his jacket with one hand as he reattached his mask with the other. How many guns did this guy have, anyway? Castiel could have sworn Meg removed the few he'd been holding in the showdown upstairs.

"You can't go!" Castiel shouted desperately. If his pride wasn't a big enough motivator, there was now the curious mystery of Red Hood's second mask. "The entire city is looking for you!"

"They're looking for Red Hood, moron," Red Hood replied, hefting both halves of his helmet, "The guy behind the mask is a whole other story." With a push of a button, the helmet pieces condensed into a large cube, which he shoved into an inner pocket of his jacket.

There was little time for Castiel to be impressed with the helmet technology, though, as Red Hood took off in a run. Castiel following suit. It was surprising how fast Red Hood was; Castiel prided himself in being a good runner, but truthfully he was better suited to longer distances. Sprinting wasn't exactly a strong suit. He caught sight of Red Hood rounding the corner of the building into an alleyway heading away from the scene of the crime.

Desperately, Castiel aimed his working grappling hook at a nearby window, but in the chaos of the last disastrous jump, the hook had gotten jammed incorrectly into the shaft of the gun, rendering it useless for the time being. He tossed it aside, following Red Hood down the dirty alleyway for a couple blocks.

A motorcycle sat propped against one of the brick walls, whether Red Hood's or a stranger's, Castiel wasn't entirely sure. The point was moot, though, as the engine roared to life under him. There was no way Castiel was going to catch up to a motorcycle on foot.

"You'll be safer with Batman!" Castiel shouted in one last attempt to convince the man to come with him. If nothing else, Michael would ensure Red Hood didn’t end up dead.

Red Hood paused, turning around fully to face Castiel. "Nobody's safe with Batman," he replied darkly, "Not even you."

Before Castiel could say anything in response, Red Hood swung his leg over the motorcycle and zoomed off in the distance, leaving only the faint whiff of gasoline behind him as he disappeared.


	3. Hot Damn, Another Mask

By the time Castiel made it back to Michael's side, he could already hear the familiar wail of sirens steadily approaching. It was a sure sign that Michael had subdued the fighting gang members and informed the police it was safe enough to come in and make arrests. This system, Michael handling the fighting and the police handling the arrests, wasn't always so popular, but the marked decrease of injury and death within the precincts soon had police officers singing a different tune.

Sure enough, Castiel rounded the corner to find a pile of criminals, mostly Horsemen, tied up. There were also, it seemed, a few Demons, but they were minor Demons at best. Thankfully, Meg was not among them. A few of the criminals still squirmed in their bindings, though most seemed to have surrendered to the inevitability of their situation. After all, Michael looked quite intimidating towering over them in his mask and cape.

"Are you hurt?" Michael asked gruffly as he caught sight of Castiel.

"Only if you count my bruised pride," Castiel shot back as he bent down to tighten the bindings on a nearby Horseman.

Michael sighed. "Who'd you let get away?" he asked in a tone of voice that made Castiel frown. 

The assumption stung, even if it was true. Castiel had been in more than his fair share of fights and almost always came out on top. Capturing Red Hood was different. It was likely nobody could have gotten so close to Red Hood to begin with, and yet Castiel knew Michael would be less than pleased to hear he had failed.

Which was why Castiel found himself saying instead, "Not a who, sir...a what. The grappling hook malfunctioned on me."

"You don't seem much worse for wear," Michael mused, looking Castiel over.

"I'm resourceful."

Michael huffed a laugh. "Then I assume you'll be able to help the police load up these criminals?"

But even as Castiel helped load wriggling men and women into cop cars, his mind was far away, wondering instead about a certain criminal in a red mask and leather jacket.

 

\---

 

Of course, by not telling Michael he'd let Red Hood get away, Castiel found he also could not tell Michael about the strange Bat symbols emblazoned on the man's chest and face. This was only a minor setback, however, thanks to the computerized system Michael kept in the Batcave. Surely, Castiel assumed, the answer lay somewhere in its advanced memory banks.

If the answer did, however, it wasn't as easily found as Castiel had hoped. It turned out there had been a few criminals who'd tried to rip off the Batman logo, but none had managed to come so close, or had Red Hood’s impressive resources. Not to mention, Red Hood looked fairly young, rather close in age to Castiel himself, and all of the perps in question were much older. As it stood, Red Hood was an outlier. 

The search didn't stop there, though. Of course, Castiel had many other crime-related matters to attend to, but that didn't stop him from questioning criminals in between (and sometimes even during) fights. Mostly, they all told him what he already knew--Red Hood was fairly new in town, but well trained and extremely well equipped. He wore a leather jacket and seemed to favor a motorcycle as his vehicle of choice.

However, there were a few things Castiel learned. For example, according to one member of a drugs syndicate, Red Hood had demanded they stop dealing to anyone under the age of 18. Another said they'd seen him beat a male gang member and leave the female member alone when he'd seen her being sexually assaulted. Finally, and most chilling, there was even talk of an entire lower-level group being wiped off the map entirely, and singlehandedly, by Red Hood.

Red Hood killed, yes, but it seemed to be under the assumption he was dealing out justice. He often tackled problems that remained underground even to Castiel and Michael, taking out people before their actions became clear to a wider audience. This not only meant he was fast, but he had his ear to the ground regarding the criminal life of the city that even Michael, in all his fancy tech, did not. The real question remained, however, what did Red Hood want? 

Castiel's obsession with finding Red Hood was only tampered by another ongoing investigation, one of Dick Roman, a highly renowned businessman whose most recent activity involved taking over Biggerson’s, a failing fast food chain, and driving profits through the roof. Of course, they'd constantly suspected Dick Roman of criminal activity, but nothing could ever be pinned to him. Recently, there had been an increase of suspicious behavior near businesses owned by Roman, but Roman owned property  _ everywhere _ . It was a wild stretch to say he was behind it all.

Unfortunately, the search for Roman's criminal connections proved about as successful as Castiel's personal hunt for Red Hood. It was exhausting, frustrating, and rather demoralizing, which was why Castiel found himself grumpily unlocking his apartment one night with a vast desire to get himself good and drunk on an unopened bottle of vodka he'd nabbed from a man vandalizing a jewelry store.

As usual, the apartment was only dimly lit by the light of the nearby buildings filtering in through his window. Still, even in the low lighting, it was clear someone else was in his apartment.

"You picked the wrong house to rob," Castiel said loudly, equipping an escrima stick in one hand while keeping hold of the vodka in the other. Of course, with both hands full he didn't bother to turn on the lights. Not only was the apartment already vaguely lit, but Castiel was confident his knowledge of the layout of the apartment would give him the upper hand in a fight in the dark.

"Dude, there's nothing here worth stealing," a deep voice replied, "C'mon, you'd think you'd at least have a television or something."

With a click that Castiel recognized as the chain on his living room fan, the lights came on, revealing none other than Red Hood, standing in the middle of the living room holding what looked to be a bottle of wine.

"I mean, seriously," Red Hood continued, still, like Castiel, fully equipped in his body armor, mask, and leather jacket, "I assumed Batman's new Robin would be lame, but not this lame!"

Castiel frowned, moving to set his bottle of vodka on the kitchen counter while keeping both eyes on Red Hood. He kept his escrima stick at the ready, though he powered it off. If Red Hood wanted to attack, he'd have taken advantage of the element of surprise. Probably.

"I'm a busy person," Castiel replied slightly stung by the comment, "And I have books."

"Oooo, watch out, we've got an intellectual on our hands now! A Robin that actually knows how to read."

Castiel rolled his eyes. "Am I supposed to believe you broke into my apartment simply to insult my choice of belongings?"

"You gotta admit, Bat Boy, it's not a bad way for either of us to spend the evening."

"Given I was planning to spend the evening drunk, I'd have to disagree."

Red Hood laughed. "Funny you should mention that," he said, holding up the bottle of wine. "Manners aren't dead. I'm not going to be the kind of house guest who doesn't bring a nice addition to a dinner party."

“I am not serving you dinner.”

“Fine,” Red Hood shrugged, “It’s just a normal party, then.”

He held the bottle out towards Castiel, who leaned forwards to inspect it, clearly at least a little curious. “Looks expensive.”

“Perks of being a vigilante. You get stuff for free.”

“So you stole it,” Cas deadpanned, utterly bewildered by the way the situation was unfolding. He never expected Red Hood to ever be in his apartment, much less offering a bottle of wine.

“Hey, only the best for my host.”

“Flattering. Speaking of,” Castiel ventured, “How’d you find me?”

“You know we gotta leave  _ some _ mystery in this relationship.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. There were a number of possibilities for how Red Hood could have found him--contacting underground networks, hacking security cameras, potentially even following him home--but it would have been nice to know  _ which _ one he’d chosen. Still, there were more pressing questions.

“Fine. Why are you here?”

Red Hood didn’t answer. Instead, he strode past Castiel into the kitchen, opening the closest set of cabinets to the living room, which were empty save for a few jars of spices. He promptly moved on to the next set. Inside were a couple of plates. Red Hood groaned.

“For such a swanky joint, I assumed you’d have a better furnished kitchen.”

“ _ Why _ are you here?” Castiel repeated, strained, as he watched Red Hood continue to rummage through the kitchen. The escrima stick hung loosely in his hand as he tried to conjure up explanations for why this would be happening. Perhaps it was a dream.

“What?” Red Hood found the cabinet with the mugs, inspecting each of them carefully before finally pulling out two clear water glasses that Castiel had honestly forgotten he owned. He liked his mugs, they worked for most drinks and for the rare occasion he came back with alcohol, he usually just drank it straight from the bottle. His tolerance for the stuff was through the roof, so he didn’t worry about accidentally getting drunk.

Pulling a knife from his pocket, Red Hood used it as a makeshift corkscrew to open the bottle of wine, pouring equal portions into both glasses and holding one out to Castiel “You don’t normally drink with criminals?”

“Oh, I normally imbibe with criminals,” Castiel replied, “But I draw the line at the ones who engage in the breaking and entering of my personal space.”

“Relax, Bat Boy,” Red Hood said, “I didn’t break. Just entered.”

“Meaning?”

“I picked the lock instead of busting through a window. Duh.”

Perfect. Now he’d have to remember to change the locks when whatever  _ this _ was came to an end. Castiel was briefly tempted to write himself a reminder, just in case, before remembering that  _ Red Hood himself _ was standing in his kitchen. He steeled his jaw. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

Red Hood sighed. “You saved me from the Demons.”

“So you broke into my apartment.”

“Hey, when you wake up in an abandoned cereal factory with a bona fide superhero ogling you, you’re bound to have questions,” Red Hood snapped.

“You think you’re the only one with questions?” Castiel retorted, “I’m running what I think is an ordinary mission for my boss--”

“--Batman,”

“-- _ my boss _ ,” Castiel repeated firmly.

“Dude. When your boss is Batman, just say Batman,” Red Hood retorted, again holding the glass of wine out to Castiel, who once again did nothing to take it.

“Fine.  _ Batman  _ set me up on an ordinary mission to trail you,” Castiel shot Red Hood a look, “but it’s not ordinary, is it?”

“So you want answers too.”

Castiel nodded. For a moment all was quiet. Red Hood set down the glasses and slowly triggered the switch on his mask. There was a  _ hiss _ as the mask detached. He carefully removed the faceplate, then the back portion, setting both onto Castiel’s granite counter with a clunk. The Bat-mask was still on his face, but this time Castiel could also see the man’s hair.

It was a dirty blonde, though a large streak in the front appeared to be dyed white. The white portion fluffed up, an evident patch of untameable bedhead. The rest of the man’s features were just as gorgeous as Castiel remembered, though in the better lighting, he noted a long scar curving down along the left cheekbone, past the second mask.

“I was hoping to make my big reveal more dramatic,” Red Hood said, “But since you already spoiled the surprise I suppose there’s no point in bothering with it now. So. I know where you live and now you know what my face looks like. We’re even.”

“You...why…” Castiel blubbered, half speechless by the increasing absurdity of the situation at hand, and half because he was unaccustomed to attractive men in his apartment.

“We both want answers. So let’s drink to get them. After each shot, we both answer one question.”

“It’s a game,” Castiel surmised, relieved he’d figured it out, “The winner being the one who best retains their alcohol and therefore manages the more coherent stream of questions.”

“...not what I was going for,” Red Hood said, green eyes dancing playfully as he picked up the glasses, “But sure. I guess that’s true.”

“Looking past the obvious aversion to getting shit-faced with a criminal in my own apartment,” Castiel mused, sheathing his escrima stick at last to walk over to the counter, “It’s not exactly standard to drink shots using a $10,000 bottle of wine--”

“C’mon, man, quit raining on my parade!”

“--so instead,” Castiel continued pointedly, grabbing his own bottle on the other side of the counter and setting it down near the wine glasses, “I offer my vodka.”

Red Hood’s face burst into a mischievous grin. “Now you’re speaking my language!” He pried off the top of the vodka bottle with the same knife he’d used before. “What do you say we chug the wine in the glasses before we start into this stuff?”

“You don’t chug wine,” Castiel replied, taking a glass, “But I’m against waste, especially something this expensive, so,” he tapped his glass to Red Hood’s, “Cheers.”

As expected, Red Hood downed the glass in one hearty gulp. Castiel tried to be more sophisticated, but truthfully, for all Michael’s attempts to prepare Castiel for sophisticated city life, many of the finer details had been lost. Castiel managed a couple sips, even swishing the wine around his mouth in case that helped, before giving in and downing the rest.

Castiel looked up from his empty glass to find Red Hood smirking at him. “Took you long enough, Bat Boy,” he said, pouring a splash of vodka into each of the cups. “Now the real fun can begin.”

They both took a cup and knocked back the alcohol in one quick gulp. Castiel smirked. His talent for holding his liquor wasn't exactly well known, so he was fairly confident he could drink Red Hood under the table. If Castiel played his cards right, he might actually get answers and capture Red Hood. Michael couldn't be disappointed by that.

Red Hood grinned up at Castiel. "I figure since I put you on the spot as host, you can take first whack at the questions."

"How chivalrous," Castiel replied, thinking for a moment about what he wanted to ask. There was a delicate balance to this. Too early and Red Hood would not be drunk enough to give unguarded answers. But wait too long and Red Hood might pass out. Add on the fact that Castiel had no frame of reference for how long it normally took Red Hood to get smashed and he was really in for an interesting ride.

Not to mention, the guy was still, in fact, an Adonis. 

Castiel wasn't about to ignore the crucial fact that he hadn't even bothered to socialize with anyone, much less someone this aesthetically pleasing, since....well...huh. Meg didn't count, of course. Whatever the thing they had was, it definitely didn't include the urge to stare shamelessly. Which left Balthazar, a rich playboy who Castiel had a short-term fling with as an act of rebellion while trying to break out on his own as Nightwing, instead of just Michael's second-hand Robin.

Neither of those held a candle to the chiseled creature sitting across from him.

"How long have you been doing this thing?" Castiel asked finally, watching Red Hood carefully.

"Depends on who you ask." Red Hood shrugged as Castiel glowered at him. "Feels like I've been doing it a lifetime, though."

So he'd either grown up in the life, or else it simply felt like it had lasted a lifetime. Castiel found himself feeling oddly sad imagining a young Red Hood training to fight criminals. Castiel had at least had the good fortune to spend much of his youth in the circus. Not the best childhood, by any means, but also not fighting crime. He wouldn’t wish that on any child.

"Your turn," Castiel said, realizing he'd still been staring at Red Hood even after the question had been answered.

"How long have you been Batman's Robin?" Red Hood was surprisingly direct, his green eyes locked onto Castiel's.

"I'm not Robin," Castiel grumbled, looking away, "I'm Nightwing." He'd spent years trying to assert at least an ounce of free will, apparently with little success. Even Red Hood, who’d only recently surfaced, only knew him as Batman’s Robin.

"Right, Bat Boy. Keep telling yourself that," Red Hood muttered, his expression oddly grim. 

Well. The atmosphere in the room had plummeted quickly. And something told Castiel that the plan would likely not work as well with a melancholy Red Hood brooding in the corner. "Another shot?" Castiel announced abruptly, pouring them both another shot. 

"I like the way you think," Red Hood said with a grin, knocking back the second shot. 

Castiel barely grimaced as the alcohol rolled down his throat. “What’s your deal?”

“My deal?” Red Hood snorted, “What are you, twelve?”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “You’re in my apartment but haven’t tried to kill me, you saved some little girl--”

“You were  _ spying _ on me?” Red Hood asked, shocked.

“Look, most violent criminals I encounter,” Castiel continued, ignoring Red Hood, “Don’t scope out domestic abuse situations in order to save the day. So. What’s your deal?”

Red Hood shrugged. “I prefer the term  _ anti-hero _ to  _ criminal _ . Kill bad guys, save innocents.  _ That’s _ my deal.”

Odd. Saving innocents, stopping criminals, those were good things. Or they would be, if Red Hood didn’t achieve those ends through murder. What was he supposed to do with a guy trying to do the same thing as Batman, just with more extreme methods? It was a quandary Castiel didn’t want to think too hard about, not without more information on Red Hood. 

He poured himself another shot, downing the glass before Red Hood had even finished filling his. 

"Been meaning to ask,” Red Hood asked with interest after his shot, “What are those things you fight with?"

"They're called escrima sticks. Basically batons with tasers in them."

"Excrement sticks?"

"Escrima."

"Dude, you are like a walking innuendo." Red Hood actually threw back his head and laughed. "Oh, baby, shock me with your stick."

"Not you, too!" Castiel blustered, though he couldn't help but smile a bit at the look on Red Hood's face. A strange feeling curled in Castiel's chest, stirring the desire to make Red Hood laugh again. The way his whole body leaned into the laughter, his head thrown back, eyes crinkled...

“So, I’m not the first one to have tried an escrima stick line?” Red Hood asked, voice fighting off laughter as he leaned forwards on the counter towards Castiel. Castiel’s heart rate hiked.

“Only one question per turn,” Castiel chided, smirking at the look of mock betrayal on Red Hood’s face. “And speaking of...where are you from?”

“Small talk. I like it,” Red Hood leaned back, running a calloused fingertip along the rim of his glass, “I’m actually native. If you’d believe it.”

Castiel’s eyes widened. It was pretty hard to believe. Red Hood couldn’t have taught himself everything he knew, his wide skillset definitely indicated he’d had a mentor to hone many broad talents. But if someone had been raising a  prot égé , especially one so talented, Michael should have heard about it. He wasn’t  _ that _ disconnected from the crime-ridden sector of the city. 

“Really?”

“Only one question per round,” Red Hood teased as he poured another two glasses of vodka, “But, because I’m practically a saint….yes. Really.”

Ridiculous. Castiel rolled his eyes as he took the glass from Red Hood, knocking back the third shot. It was starting to burn at this point. If he was lucky, Red Hood would really start feeling the effects of the alcohol by now, though Castiel was rarely so lucky. Sure enough, Red Hood looked pretty stable on his feet, though he’d seemed to have migrated closer to Castiel around the island. Huh.

“When did you get involved with Batman?” Red Hood asked lowly, staring at his empty glass. He rubbed the smooth surface with his thumb, his jaw tightening, as though he was preparing himself for an answer he did not want to hear. 

“I was a teenager,” Cas replied, “Making things work by performing at the circus as an acrobat. Batman saw my routine. Offered me a better life.”

“I meant what year,” Red Hood said stiffly, never looking up at Castiel. He spun the glass around slowly in his hand, the dregs dipping this way and that with the motion. 

Castiel considered making a joke, but it seemed that Red Hood was actually intent on finding an answer. The trade-offs seemed to work in Castiel’s favor. After all, giving a straight answer to an innocuous question might incentivize Red Hood to do the same, possibly for a more important question.

“Almost seven years ago.”

Red Hood inhaled sharply, looking up at Castiel at last. He searched Castiel’s face, hand clenched tightly around the glass, which was now motionless. A tense silence fell. Castiel wondered why his time with Batman was of such significance, what Red Hood might do with the information, and which one of them had drifted closer to the other during the exchange. Red Hood was closer than ever, his shoulders close enough that Castiel could bump them if he shifted without thinking.

“Who did you train with?” Castiel blurted out, finding, strangely, the latter issue was the most pressing. He was usually so professional, detached and by the book, but this? Red Hood somehow got him to tear up the rule book and set it ablaze.

Castiel almost regretted asking the question when Red Hood’s face fell. His jaw tightened and his eyes again looked far away, as though he was remembering some sad event he’d hitherto kept locked up tight. “A dick,” Red Hood replied finally, his voice a low grumble, “The kind of man who’d leave you to die when it became inconvenient.”

It didn’t matter that Castiel had heard these sorts of stories before. Most villains, it seemed, were formed by some sort of traumatic abandonment. Perhaps it was simply because Red Hood was attractive, or perhaps it was because (due to his mission, of course) Castiel felt pulled into Red Hood’s orbit, but he actually felt bad for him. He couldn’t imagine how much it would hurt if Michael abandoned him in his time of need. And Castiel had a hunch that whoever Red Hood’s mentor was, he was probably one of the only people to have gotten close to Red Hood to begin with.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel whispered, knowing full well the words were hollow. To his surprise, however, Red Hood smiled at him. A little bitter, yes, but also pleasantly surprised.

“Didn’t know a Batman goon had it in him to have a heart.”

“I’m not a Batman goon!” Castiel grumbled, the pleasant surprise dissolving instantly into irritation. In general, he disliked the fact that his attempts at some semblance of independence went unnoticed. But for Red Hood not to notice? That particularly stung.

Red Hood laughed. “Then what are you?” he said, peering at Castiel through the slits in his own Bat-mask.

“Is that your question for the round?”

“Sure,” Red Hood shrugged, sidling even closer to Castiel as though trying to get a better look of his face.

Castiel sighed. “I won’t deny it, I was Robin. I accompanied Batman everywhere, I followed every order with exactness but…” he shifted uncomfortably, “something felt...off. So, a couple years ago, I decided to make a break with Batman.”

“You still wear his mask.”

“So do you,” Castiel pointed out, “I knew I couldn’t entirely escape the connection to Batman. Nor did I want to. I had neither the funds or the clout to make a difference alone, and I desperately wanted to make a difference. So I was reborn as Nightwing. Batman funds me, for the most part, and I come to help him from time to time.”

“Nightwing…” Red Hood said to himself, trying out the name, and Castiel couldn’t control the shiver that ran down his spine at the sound, “Not a bad name to go by, as far as superheroes go.”

“Really?” Castiel hoped there wasn’t a peculiar flush creeping onto his cheeks, or that Red Hood would dismiss said flush as being drunk. Huh. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps his tolerance to alcohol had simply dropped.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s still a goofy name.”

“You go by Red Hood.”

“ Touché .”

Red Hood chuckled and Castiel soon found himself following suit. For a moment, it felt like Red Hood was an ally rather than an enemy.  _ I’d like that _ , Castiel found himself thinking, imagining a world where the man next to him was his partner. The both of them wearing matching Bat-masks, and all, it was easy enough to envision, not to mention the fact they were sharing drinks together in the comfort of his own apartment.

Too bad the man was a criminal.

Red Hood must have noticed his face fall, because he began nudging Castiel onto a nearby barstool. His hand was warm and firm, guiding Castiel to a seated position before sitting down next to him to pour them both another shot of vodka.

“I anticipate you’ll lose your balance soon,” Red Hood said, his nose crinkling as he grinned at Castiel, who mustered a smile in return as he grabbed his glass of vodka. Red Hood looked almost endearing when he grinned.

The next few (or dozen? Castiel soon lost track) shots were a blur for Castiel. Highlights included admitting he was an orphan, singing praises of Batman’s many cool gadgets and admitting his doubts about some of Batman’s orders, including the cryptic mission to track down Red Hood himself. In return, Red Hood divulged that he’d lost his family at a young age, that he worked alone and that he did not respect Batman in the slightest. 

“The real big question,” Castiel slurred, chugging down one of the final shots of vodka, “Is. Uh.” 

Red Hood waited, face flushed. They both swayed slightly on the stools. It had grown late and most of the lights in the apartment, which Castiel had set to an automated system in case he had to dash out in the middle of the night, had turned off. 

“...what’s with your  _ hair? _ ” Castiel finished finally, gesturing to the tuft of white hair that stuck up from Red Hood’s forehead.

Caught off guard by the question, Red Hood laughed so hard he fell off his stool with a  _ thump _ . He continued to laugh, too, as Castiel clumsily hopped off his own stool, trying and failing to help Red Hood up. With much effort, Red Hood got to his feet, swiping the near-empty vodka bottle.

“We’d better take this somewhere else,” Cas hiccuped, slinging Red Hood’s arm over his shoulder and guiding them both to the hammock. It was his only other available piece of furniture, aside from the bed. It was a little tricky fitting two grown men onto a hammock, especially while tipsy, but they eventually settled onto it, twisting it into a seated position.

“So,” he said as Red Hood’s giggles died down, “What’s with your hair? Did you dye it?”

“Died to get it,” Red Hood replied, his laughter picking back up.

“Why’d you dye it?”

“No, no,” Dean patted his shoulder with a giggle, “Died. Like,” he drew a line across his throat, “Dead. Not breathin’. Corpse thingy.”

“Noooo,” Castiel punched him clumsily, “I want a real answer.”

“I’m serious. Totally dead,” Red Hood laughed, “Came back to life an’ ta-da! White hair.”

Castiel found himself laughing too, taken aback by Red Hood’s bizarre answer.  _ We both must be drunk _ , he decided. The two drifted closer and closer, both too comfortable to move away. Well, too comfortable and giggly after finishing off nearly the entire bottle of vodka.

“The real mystery is,” Castiel said between uncontrollable giggles, “that you’ve got all that Batman gear on under your mask and jacket and I have no idea why.”

“Shouldn’t you be asking ManBat…” Red Hood paused, face flushed as he thought hard about the name, “...Batman,” he corrected, causing the two to dissolve into more peals of laughter.

“I...can’t…” Castiel wheezed, “He would judge you...um... _ way _ ...too harsh.”

He giggled a little more, but stopped short at the sight of Red Hood’s face, which, even in the low light, he could see was devoid of mirth. “I kill people, Bat Boy,” Red Hood growled. He looked rather scary saying it, in a way even more than he might wearing his red mask, because Castiel could see he meant exactly what he said. “Isn’t harsh judgement what a killer deserves?”

It was exactly the sort of argument Michael might have used, right down to the low level of terror it induced. But it was precisely because he was reminded of Batman (and also possibly because of the amount of alcohol he’d imbibed) that Castiel found himself blurting out “I watched you save that girl.”

Red Hood looked confused, so Castiel continued. “The child. Running away from an abusive father. It happened a couple weeks--”

“That son of a bitch,” Red Hood growled lowly, “He deserved worse.”

“Anyone could have shot him,” Castiel continued dismissively, “Did you know a  _ lot _ of criminals use guns?” He hiccuped. “But you were so...so gentle with the girl…”

“’m not a  _ monster _ ,” Red Hood scoffed, offended, before taking a swig of vodka straight from the bottle.

“Exactly,” Castiel whispered, taking the bottle from Red Hood and gulping down some himself as he tried to articulate what he was thinking. Or, more likely, feeling. “You’re...you’re…” he repeated, finding himself leaning forwards.

When had they gotten so close? Castiel could see the faint freckles on Red Hood’s nose, could smell the vodka on his lips. Lips that, Castiel now realized, were soft and plush, unlike his own. Instinctively, Castiel licked his own chapped lips, still stuttering “you’re...you’re…” while trying in vain to conjure up words to fill the void.

“Dean,” Red Hood whispered in reply, “I’m Dean.”


	4. The Shining Ain't Got Nothing on Plumbing

Castiel woke up sprawled across his bed with a raging hangover. His suit was still half on, leaving his chest bare and the sleeves dangling down to his legs. His mask was nowhere to be seen. He blinked blearily in the blinding afternoon sun, trying to remember how he’d gotten here.

_ “Dean,” Red Hood whispered, “I’m Dean.” _

With a start, Castiel bolted upright. Had that really happened? It seemed so impossible now, in the light of day, that Red Hood had come over here and gotten drunk with him. Perhaps the whole thing was merely an elaborate dream he’d had after downing an entire bottle of vodka on his own…

He didn’t even hesitate as he lept to standing, racing to the living room to find some sort of proof. For the briefest moment, it all looked fine. Then he noticed the red metallic mask sitting casually on the counter. Castiel’s heart jumped into his throat as he turned ever so slowly to find Red Hood asleep on his hammock.

His Bat-mask was set on the floor. The man looked peaceful in sleep, all the hard lines of worry or anger smoothed away. He was snoring softly, his face smushed up into the netting. Of course, with this revelation came another, far more worrisome one. Because Castiel couldn’t remember anything past Red Hood, or, well,  _ Dean _ , giving his name. And the fact Castiel woke up maskless and half naked was….suspicious to say the least.

Castiel raced to the bathroom, sleeves flapping against his thighs. He flicked on the lights and made his way to the mirror inside the cramped bathroom, examining himself for hickies. There was an unfortunate bruise across his ribcage from a fight with a jewel thief, and an odd scar across his back from his one and only run in with Lucifer.

Castiel shivered as he ran his fingertips across the scar. It spanned his shoulder blades and sloped down the curve of his back, reminding Castiel of a pair of wings, folded into his body. Lucifer was the leader of the Demon gang, hell-bent on creating chaos and crumbling the city. The fact he’d survived a face-off with him at all was impressive.

Aside from the scar, his back looked clear. No hickies to be found on his neck and chest either, so if they kissed, they likely didn’t go much further, at least. Still, Castiel wasn’t entirely sure that conclusion was heartening.

“Don’t worry, Bat Boy,” Dean’s deep rumbling voice caught Castiel by surprise and, acting on instinct, he pinned Dean to the tiled wall of the cramped bathroom. Dean grunted on impact. “I was gonna say,” he groaned, “Don’t worry, Bat Boy, I don’t hurt my hosts.”

“That doesn’t sound ominous at all,” Castiel grumbled, but he released Dean all the same.

“Why would it sound...oh. Hmmm. That does sound pretty bad now that I think of it.”

“Any reason you felt the need to creep up on me in the bathroom to begin with?” Castiel asked, not thinking to move after letting Dean go. This meant the two were nearly close enough to touch. Of course, his question was a huge understatement; Castiel still couldn’t understand why any of their interactions in the last 24 hours happened at all.

“Figured it was more appropriate to take a leak in your bathroom instead of your living room,” Dean shrugged, “Plus I’ve been dying to have you slam me against a wall,” he added with a smirk.

Castiel rolled his eyes, stepping out of the way at last, “You do your business,” he said gruffly, praying to anyone who might be listening that he wasn’t blushing. There was something about Dean that put him off balance.

Dean nodded. His hair, Castiel noticed as the door swung shut, stuck up in a few places. It was rather endearing. That is, if Castiel ignored the fact he was a known killer, which evidently wasn’t that hard because he’d managed to do just that the night before. There was something about Dean, something unlike other criminals Castiel had gone up against, that gave Castiel pause.

And, well, other sensations he’d rather not think about.

Self conscious, Castiel looked down to remember, to his dismay, he was still very much half dressed. He debated about changing into casual clothes, but decided against it. His business and personal lives were already far too intertwined for comfort at this point, but the least he could do was stay in uniform. 

He tugged his sleeves back on, then slowly zipped the suit closed. Castiel sighed as he looked at it. There was a certain level of honor attached to that suit, a certain level of commitment to the general public to protect them at all costs. And not only had he  _ not _ done anything to protect people from a known gunman, he’d spent the whole of last night drinking with him. Worse, he quite possibly might be letting Dean walk free.

Then the thought occurred to him: now might actually be the perfect time to get actual answers from Dean. After all, the questions he’d asked the night before had been met with drunk and vague responses. Good, but not great. Now, however, Dean was tucked into Castiel’s small bathroom. A bathroom which only had a tiny window, barely big enough to fit an arm through, much less the body of a grown man. And Dean had locked himself inside…

Castiel’s head still throbbed from the hangover as he raced to the bedroom, looking for something, anything, that might help contain Red Hood. The toilet flushed. He was running out of time. In a blind panic, he grabbed an escrima stick, racing back to the bathroom. The sink gurgled, Dean would be out any second...with one fluid motion, Castiel sent the escrima stick slamming down on the doorknob, crushing it.

“ _ What the hell?” _ Dean shouted from inside the bathroom, the water still running. The crushed doorknob rattled, presumably as Dean tried to open the door, but to no avail. “Did you trap me in your bathroom?”

“I want answers,” Castiel replied.

“I  _ gave _ you answers last night!”

“I want  _ real _ answers. Not just vague clues,” Castiel clarified. “I have a mission to get answers.” The guilt for getting drunk with a known criminal was starting to set in. Castiel had never gone this off book before; even in trying to break away from working as Batman’s underling, he’d still followed Batman’s guidelines to perfection.

“Cut the crap, Bat Boy.” The doorknob rattled again, but the door did not budge. “You admitted last night you have doubts.”

“My doubts should not impede my ability to be an honorable crime fighter.”

“You locked me in a bathroom while I was taking an innocent piss!”

Castiel frowned as there was a bang on the door. His head screamed in protest. This was not, as he was quickly learning, his most well-thought-out plan. Three years trying to prove he was adequate on his own and this might actually be the thing that broke any of the trust he'd managed to gain with Michael. "And I'll let you out once you answer a few reasonable questions."

"Or maybe I'll break down this door," Dean growled as he pounded on the door, "Smash the window. Bust a hole in the wall. Maybe snap the shower head off for good measure."

"Be reasonable, Dean. It's not like I'm trying to hurt you," Castiel said with a sigh.

The pounding stopped. Silence hung heavy in the air. "What did you call me?" Dean asked.

"Dean?"

" _ Shit _ ." The change in tone was evident. There was something important about his name, something that he hadn't wanted Castiel to know. "Then you have your answers. Get me the hell out of here."

"That doesn't answer anything!" Castiel protested, "There are things I need to understand beyond a clever quip. I need to know what your M.O. is. I need to know why you broke into my home to begin with."

Another round of silence followed. Eventually, Dean gave a dark chuckle. "I suppose finding you hot isn't the reason you're looking for?"

It wasn’t, but there was still a curious reaction in the pit of Castiel’s stomach at the thought of Dean finding him attractive. Frustrated, he pushed the feeling back down. Lust was certainly not a luxury he could afford himself in a situation like this.

"I can make this easier for you," Castiel begged, "If you cooperate, I'm sure Batman will--"

"Running back to Batman already?" Dean mocked, "Gonna keep me pent up in here like a caged animal while you show Daddy what you've caught?"

"Dean, I--"

"You shouldn't know that name," Dean growled, slamming the door so hard it rattled.

"It's not my fault you told--"

Castiel was interrupted by a loud bang, the door splintering ever so slightly. His eyes widened. Dean had weaponized something in the bathroom. There was another bang. The door splintered more. A third hit and a hole broke through not far from the door handle.

"This is," Dean grunted as he beat a larger hole using what appeared to be part of the sink’s plumbing, "The point where I'd make some sort of reference to The Shining, if you were a scumbag drug dealer I was trying to scare and not just some shitty host with bad manners."

One final slam and the door swung open, wood chips scattering everywhere. Castiel flicked on his escrima stick, cursing himself for not having the second one present. Dean wielded a line of metal piping and looked absolutely furious. 

"Why would you comment on the sun shining?" Castiel commented dumbly as the two stared each other down.

Dean looked halfway between a laugh and a death glare.

"I can't let you leave without answering a few questions," Castiel finally ventured hesitantly, and Dean swung the pipe at Castiel's torso. Castiel blocked, the pipe slamming against the escrima stick with a loud clang. Wait. It was a  _ metal _ pipe.

“Hell no! You fight dirty!”

Dean took off towards the living room. Castiel, with a sprint, jumped against the wall, springing nimbly off the side and body-slamming into Dean. "You have to have some sort of plan. Nobody just goes about causing pure chaos."

"Doesn't Lucifer?" Dean grunted. He was caught off balance by Castiel's blow, but quickly righted himself, swinging the metal pipe at Castiel again. This time, Castiel was expecting it, sending the electrified end of his escrima stick into the metal. Dean swore, dropping the pipe.

"This is what I mean, you fight dirty!"

"Your weapon of choice is a gun, Dean. That’s the textbook definition of fighting dirty!"

Dean scrabbled for something else to use, grabbing the nearly empty bottle of vodka that sat on the counter. “Well, I’m not using that right now, am I?”

“No,” Castiel lunged with the escrima stick, but Dean deftly dodged, “Instead you opt to screw up my plumbing.”

“You locked me in your bathroom! The selection was limited!” Dean swung the vodka bottle, which shattered against the escrima stick. Shards of glass flew everywhere, scattering across the kitchen and into the living room. Castiel risked a glance to his feet, where he found, to his dismay, he was barefooted. Somehow his shoes had managed to make it off the night before. 

For a moment, Dean looked slightly chagrined at Castiel’s situation, before he turned and made a run towards the couch. Without hesitating, Castiel charged after him, barely noticing the glass shards under his feet. He was not going to fail this mission. Not like this. The thought pounded through his head like a drumbeat.

Dean rushed to the bookshelf, hand hovering over  _ War and Peace _ . Castiel smirked, swinging his escrima stick. “Really? You’ve resorted to throwing books?” he said as Dean dodged.

“Not exactly,” Dean replied, removing the book to reveal a handgun, a gun that had absolutely  _ not _ been there the morning before. Castiel cursed himself as he heard the distinctive  _ click _ as Dean cocked the gun. His heart plummeted to his his feet. Stupid.  _ Stupid! _ Assuming Red Hood had actually come unarmed to break into his house.

“You couldn’t have grabbed that  _ before _ the vodka bottle?” Castiel asked drily, gesturing to the mess of glass and bloody footprints in the kitchen. There wasn’t a lot of blood, he’d survived much worse, but still. Blood would be a pain to scrub off his nice wood floor.

“My bad,” Dean said, sounding sincerely apologetic. “You wanna sit down?” He gestured towards the hammock with the gun, leaving Castiel utterly unsure if it was a threat or a courtesy. Maybe both.

“Let me get this straight,” Castiel swayed slightly in place, trying to relieve pressure on one foot, then the other, “You want me to sit and watch you escape?” He fiddled with his escrima stick as he weighed his options. Try to fight an armed gunman and possibly lose, or yield and definitely lose him.

So he was doing this. Great.

At this close of a range with a gun leveled at him, Castiel decided to settle with jujitsu. Keeping himself low, he ran at Dean, tackling him to the floor. Dean swore, clearly not anticipating the blow as the gun clattered across the floor and into the glass in the kitchen. “You were supposed to give up!” Dean cried.

“Really? You point a gun at me and just expect me to stand down?” Castiel scoffed, looping his legs around Dean’s and pressing his forearm against Dean’s chest.

“Um. Yes?” Dean looked genuinely surprised as he squirmed, shifting his weight to send Castiel toppling to the floor. Now it was Dean on top. Castiel tried to use his escrima stick to shock Dean, but to his dismay, he found that in the scuffle, he’d managed to turn it off.

Dean glanced down at the dead escrima stick poking into his side, smirking as he snatched the escrima stick from Cas’ hand. “Nice tech,” he said, turning it on with a crackle. “You ever been on the receiving end?”

“I’m sure you’ve been dying to electrify me,” Castiel grunted.

Dean threw back his head and laughed.  “Bat Boy! How scandalous! Getting in on the jokes now that you’re not the one running around with two massive innuendos.”

Castiel tried to squirm, but Dean had situated himself into a better position, putting his weight into pinning down Castiel’s legs. “In a  _ shocking _ turn of events,” he paused, smirking as he waited for Castiel’s reaction to his pun. Castiel did not. “Shit, tough crowd today,” Dean said, “Anyway, in a shocking turn of events, I don’t wanna zap you if I don’t have to.”

“Then what  _ do _ you want?”

“To talk.”

“We  _ just _ physically fought because you  _ didn’t _ want to talk.”

“Nah,” Dean brought the crackling escrima stick closer to Castiel’s arm as Castiel continued to squirm. He would have guessed it was on purpose, but Dean truly did not seem to be paying attention to the physical part of the fight. “We fought because I didn’t want to answer your questions. This is different.”

“Cryptic,” Castiel muttered, “Why do I only seem to have cryptic men in my life?”

“As utterly tempted as I am to probe further into that statement, we need to talk about Roman,” Dean interrupted, his tone serious. In that moment, he looked like an action star. His uniform was slightly rumpled, his dirty blonde hair, as well as the shockingly white tuft, both lit by the sunlight streaming through the window and for a moment, Castiel was caught off guard by just how much it felt like he’d walked into a Bourne movie.

“Dude, you got a concussion alongside that wicked hangover?” Dean tapped Castiel’s temple with his finger. As he leaned over to examine Castiel more closely, the escrima stick came dangerously close to his skin. He hissed and Dean pulled back, looking apologetic. “We need to talk about Roman,” Dean said again.

“What about him?”

“I gotta take him down.”

Castiel sighed. Between the hangover, the bloodied feet and the grown man on his chest, he wasn’t doing too hot. “Join the club,” he muttered, hating to pile on top of the rest of his pains the stupid memory of how they had, time and time again, failed to pin any major crime on Dick Roman.

“You don’t understand,” Dean continued, “He’s poisoning his own food supply. Word on the street is it’s got some kind of drug in it to placate the cops but it’s not just the cops eating it, is it? There’s plenty of innocents. Kids, even.”

“Dean--”

“--it’s more than that,” Dean continued, his grip loosening on Castiel as he continued into the grisly hear-say, “He’s riling up gangs. Bullying businesses out of town. Dismantling the foundation of the governing entities.”

“Do you have proof?”

Dean groaned loudly, his jaw tightening. “Nothing Batman in his ivory tower would be able to use to justify an arrest.”

“Then I can’t.” Castiel said, hating himself for even admitting it. 

“Can’t you?” Dean retorted. “Roman’s not going to let anything stand in his way on this search to rule the city and he’ll leave a trail of bodies that you can’t  _ quite _ pin to him. Look me in the eye and tell me sticking to your precious code of morals is worth letting this happen.”

“At what cost?” Castiel snapped, echoing Michael’s common refrain, “Murder isn’t something you can take back.”

“Yeah, but if you let a criminal walk free, neither is the blood that’ll be on your hands!”

They locked eyes, Castiel not buckling, even under the intensity of Dean’s green gaze. On the one hand, there was Michael. Michael who never broke his “no killing” rule and only seemed to be pleased by the most strict obedience to his plans. Michael who was expecting him to bring Dean back to the Bat Cave. And yet...there was Dean. Who was mysterious, yes, and violent, but seemed to have his heart in the right place. As much as someone who killed others in cold blood could, anyway.

Most importantly, however, was the fact Dean had a point. With every advancement Roman made, he left another set of dead bodies in his wake.

Finally, Castiel responded. “I’m not killing anyone.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to.”

“And we’re limiting the body count,” Castiel added.

“Worth a lively debate, but I’m sure we’ll hammer out the details.”

“And. Uh,” Castiel hadn’t expected the negotiations to go so well, “You clean up the glass in my kitchen.”

“Done,” Dean replied cheerfully.

“So we have a deal?”

“Almost,” Dean said, stretching, “We don’t involve Batman.”

Castiel paused for only a microsecond to consider whether or not that was a good idea. He’d never done anything directly against Michael’s orders before. Then again, maybe that was why he hadn’t made a name for himself yet. “Fine.”

“Great. Then we’ll settle this the Demon way.” 

“I’m not kissing you, Dean.”  

“Buzz-kill.” 

Despite the temptation, better not to mix business with pleasure.

Dean rolled off Castiel, stepping up before helping Castiel to his feet. Castiel winced at the couple of shards still lodged into his feet, but managed to stay standing. Dean extended a hand, which Castiel took. The handshake was firm, but not hard enough to be painful.

“We work together till we take down Roman,” Dean said, “And then we’ll go our separate ways. Deal?”

“Deal.” Castiel shook and realized, for the first time, that it was actually quite possible to make very questionable decisions while not under the influence of alcohol.


	5. Almond Milk and Enrique

The first thing on the agenda, after Castiel picked the glass shards from his feet and Dean grudgingly swept the floor, was surveillance. Both had run into a similar problem when trying to track Roman: he was strangely impossible to find. A fact, Castiel groused, that was especially frustrating given that Roman was a powerful businessman with many scheduled public appearances listed online.

Of course, it was quickly discovered that the two had very different approaches to surveillance. Castiel opted to use technology and spy from the rooftop of nearby buildings. Dean, on the other hand, preferred the more straightforward approach: dressing up and trying to infiltrate the operation from the inside. And while both had managed to compile quite a bit of office gossip, neither had actually ever had eyes on Roman in person.

“Maybe he’s a hologram,” Dean said, strolling out of Castiel’s room in a pair of jeans and what was likely Castiel’s only henley. They agreed that street clothes were in order -- latex body suits were rather conspicuous after all -- but Dean didn’t trust Castiel knowing where his hideout was and Castiel didn’t trust Dean not to load up on firearms if he went alone. Which meant Dean was borrowing some of Castiel’s clothes instead, leaving Castiel to try valiantly to ignore the fact the whole ordeal felt so  _ normal _ .

“I know you meant that as a joke,” Castiel mused, lounging in his favorite combination of slacks, dress shirt and tie, “But given the amount of money at his disposal, a hologram is a fairly reasonable hypothesis.”

“Shut up. You’re saying they might actually be going full blown  _ Star Wars _ on us?” Dean was excited by this idea, Castiel could tell by the way his eyes lit up while he dug through Castiel’s limited stock of food.

“I am not sure Roman has made it into space…” Castiel replied hesitantly, starting a pot of coffee before taking a few painkillers for his hangover, “Though I suppose we can’t rule galactic warfare out.”

“Dude.” Dean’s voice grew serious as he set a box of Wheaties down in front of Cas, his big green eyes wide as he stared down at him, “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen  _ Star Wars _ .”

“Oh, you were making a reference to a popular piece of media,” Castiel surmised, mostly to himself. Dean groaned loudly, pouring himself a bowl of Wheaties.

“Never seen  _ Star Wars _ . That’s the  _ real _ crime here,” Dean muttered, opening the fridge and reaching blindly for milk. Castiel tapped him on the shoulder and passed the carton to him, a bemused grin on his lips. Dean looked down at the carton as he poured, gasping. “Almond milk? Really?” he cried, aghast, “You’re practically a super villain.”

“Oh, yes,” Castiel replied drily, “Taking down the world one container of dairy-free milk at a time.”

“Hey, you never know,” Dean grabbed a spoon and sat down, “I once busted a super villain obsessed with healthy living. She--” he stopped abruptly, “...you wouldn’t wanna hear about it,” he added, glancing up at Castiel before shoving a copious spoonful of Wheaties into his mouth.

Odd. From the little he knew about Dean, it seemed unlike him not to gloat at any opportunity. And taking down a super villain was no small feat. Not to mention, something about the “healthy-living” villain sounded vaguely familiar. A past criminal that Castiel had heard of, perhaps, because he hadn’t ever fought anyone like it.

“You’ll get used to the almond milk,” Castiel said finally, trying to break the awkward silence that had fallen at the counter. He poured himself a bowl of Wheaties, only noticing that Dean had stopped to stare when he grabbed the milk. “What?” Castiel asked, pouring a liberal amount into his bowl, “It’s not  _ that _ bad.”

“You assume we’re going to be staying together to work this case,” Dean replied with a shrug, tucking back into his nearly empty bowl, “Interesting.”

“I-I just assumed we’d be eating breakfast together!” Castiel blustered, entirely unsure of how he’d made such an error. They were not friends, they couldn’t be, they were just two people who happened to be working together. Once. For a single case. Certainly not enough time to get someone accustomed to drinking almond milk.

“Guess I’ll have to buy real milk for your fridge in the meantime,” Dean winked, then finished off his bowl as though none of the exchange fazed him. Then again, he was a killer. It was possible he couldn’t be fazed.

Castiel, on the other hand, couldn’t quite banish the ever so familiar flutter of butterflies in his stomach. They ate in silence after that.

The first part of the plan, well, the only defined part of the plan, involved a Roman Enterprises building that was devoted to Communications. At least, that’s what the website said. But both Castiel and Dean had found evidence of it being a central hub to Roman’s activities. 

For example, some of the first food-poisoning accidents were reported at nearby restaurant chains, as Castiel had discovered while analyzing the data. Dean, meanwhile, had spotted a few high ranking gang members, including Crowley of the Demons and one of the four leaders of the Horsemen, known only as Pestilence, which was a rare sighting indeed.

If nothing else, they both decided the building would be a good place to start their investigation. Since Castiel had never gone directly undercover before, Dean insisted they go together. “There’s a reason I stick to my suit,” Castiel grumbled as he slid on his comfortable, albeit slightly oversized, trench coat. “I am not exactly skilled at subtlety.”

“Oh, I found that out the hard way when you tried to trap me in your bathroom,” Dean walked out of the bedroom, having changed into one of Castiel’s dress shirts and ties, though he still wore his leather jacket. He stopped short, however, at seeing Castiel, wrinkling his nose. “What fresh hell are you wearing?”

“A trench coat? I believe they are rather iconic.”

“You keep tellin’ yourself that, Bat Boy,” Dean replied and, in one swift motion, tugged the jacket from Castiel’s shoulders. Before Castiel could react, Dean had already slipped his own leather jacket off and was coaxing it onto Castiel.

Castiel’s only thought at that point was:  _ so this is what Dean smells like _ .

Dean examined him critically, one hand cupping his chin as though he was a philosophy professor lost in thought. (At least, it was how Castiel imagined such people to be, he’d never met a philosophy professor before.) “Not quite right,” Dean muttered, unexpectedly extending a hand to ruffle Castiel’s carefully parted hair.

Dean then stepped back, hands on his hips as he inspected his handiwork. “That oughta do it,” he said finally, “Just add your trademark glare--yup, that one right there--and we have ourselves the perfect bodyguard, leaving me...” he scooped up Castiel’s coat off the floor, his slightly broader frame and height filling out the coat in ways Castiel never could, “...to be the successful businessman.”

Castiel had to admit, Dean looked quite good in the trench coat. In fact, Dean could easily have fit in with the businessmen that frequented Roman’s establishments. He was all the right amounts of class and bravado; pretty impressive given that Castiel assumed the man lived a life primarily made up of violent crime.

It wasn’t long before Castiel noticed he’d been staring. What followed was the surprising realization that Dean had been staring  _ back _ . “Um, right,” Dean said gruffly, shaking his head, “We should probably review the game plan.”

“Enter the building,” Castiel recited. He was good at keeping up with other people’s plans, between his time in the circus and his era as Batman’s sidekick, “Wait until we see individuals who appear important. Get into a heated argument, catching their attention, and escalating it into a fight that they will be pressured to stop. In the scuffle, you will steal their identification, allowing us to bypass--”

“--you know what I just realized,” Dean interrupted, smoothing the hems of the trench coat, “I still don’t know your name.”

Cas opened and closed his mouth dumbly. He wasn’t used to being interrupted during a briefing. Much less an interruption about something that was not only trivial, but not connected to the mission in the slightest. His name? Why would Dean want to know that? He already had Castiel’s address. But the way Dean asked skewed oddly towards familiar, not antagonistic. As though he was merely trying to get to know a friend.

Dean took Castiel’s silence as an invitation to clarify. “It’s not exactly fair, is it? You know mine. And I can’t keep calling you Bat Boy, can I?”

“Seems reasonable enough to me,” Castiel said with a shrug, trying to hide the fact Dean’s query made his heart pound. How Dean managed to have such an effect on Castiel was a mystery.

“Nah,” Dean wandered into Castiel’s closet, coming back with a sleek black briefcase. It traditionally held Castiel’s suit, but today it was devoted primarily to Bat gadgets. High end lock picks, camera disruptors, smoke bombs, life form scanners and a brand new grappling hook. Keeping in contact with Batman certainly had its advantages. “Bat Boy is too obvious. I’m just going to have to guess your name.”

“Naturally,” Cas nabbed the briefcase, rifling through the inside to ensure they had enough room to store any potential evidence they came across inside the building.

“Is it Steve?”

“Oh, definitely,” Castiel rolled his eyes as he clicked the briefcase shut, tossing it to Dean, who looked excited for a split second before catching the expression on Castiel’s face.

“It’s not Steve, is it?”

“Do I look like a Steve?” Castiel asked, checking to make sure his escrima sticks were tucked out of sight. As much as he’d rather not fight, it was always helpful to be prepared.

“It’s better than Bat Boy,” Dean shrugged, fiddling with Castiel’s older escrima sticks. Unlike his newer editions, the ones Dean held were basically sleek clubs, no electricity involved. With Dean’s predilection for murder, Castiel barely trusted him with the powered down escrima sticks, but it also didn’t seem fair to send him somewhere dangerous without giving him  _ something _ .

“Be that as it may, it’s not my name.” 

With everything appearing to be in order, Castiel strode out the door, Dean following suit. “Remember,” Castiel said, “That briefcase also holds our Bat-masks in case we end up in legitimate combat.” Dean had wanted to also bring his Red Hood mask, but Castiel had refused.

“You really take eye protection seriously,” Dean quipped, stepping into the elevator and pressing the button for the first floor. Castiel rolled his eyes. The longer he spent with Dean, the more he realized just how annoyed Michael must have been at Castiel’s own sarcastic responses. 

“Or so the general public will realize we’re not criminals,” Castiel replied, exasperated. Dean smirked, which was both vexing and perplexing. Which, of course, was all the more confusing. Dean was supposed to be an asset, not a distraction. But his green eyes and sense of humor and  _ perfect _ ass, well, it wasn’t a great combination for Castiel’s focus. “Which is why we also have to--”

“--I know, I know,” Dean interrupted as the elevator began its descent, “We stick to your silly moral code.”

The elevator shuddered to a stop on the 36th floor and an old woman hobbled on with a walker. Her grey hair was still wrapped around cheerful pink curlers and a large knitted bag hung from the walker. Cas glanced from the woman back up to Dean.

“It’s not  _ my _ silly code, it’s society’s,” Castiel said carefully, not wanting to scare the poor old woman, who glanced up at him with eyes almost comically exaggerated by her thick glasses, “You can’t go around doing... _ that _ .”

“Doing what, Spencer?” Dean asked, smirking again. Castiel wasn’t sure what bothered him more, the teasing or the incorrect name, “What’s so terrible it can’t be said in present company?”

This, of course, caught the old woman’s attention, who now switched between staring at Dean and Castiel with her eyes wide. Dean was grinning broadly and Castiel fumed, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. They all stood in silence when the woman unexpectedly blurted out, “I have a gay grandson, you know. I’m not going to judge your lifestyle.”

Neither Cas or Dean were expecting the intrusion and a shocked silence fell over the elevator, interrupted only by the ring to alert them they had reached the ground floor. “Have a lovely day, you two,” the old woman said, waving as she left. The two watched as she hailed a taxi once outside.

“My name isn’t Spencer,” Castiel said finally as they made their way out the same doors as the old woman. Dean had taken the lead at this point and Castiel, out of habit, had fallen in step.

“Worth a shot, Dave,” Dean replied, veering off the street and into the alley behind Castiel’s apartment building. Overstuffed dumpsters, cigarette butts and windblown city detritus littered the alley; it smelled about as appealing as it looked. Castiel had fought in many a bad spot, but it didn’t stop him from wrinkling his nose at the stench. Dean, on the other hand, soldiered on a ways until uncovering a sleek motorcycle painted a red Castiel could only assume matched Dean’s red hood.

“Unfortunately, it’s not Dave,” Castiel complained, eyes widening as he saw the bike. “How did you manage to keep something this nice tucked back here all night?”

“I have my ways,” Dean smirked, throwing a leg over the machine. “Ready to go?”

Castiel squinted, tilting his head. “But there’s only one bike.”

“Guess you’ll have to hold on tight, Enrique.”

“Dean, you have to know it’s not Enrique,” realization dawned on Castiel, then, “I’m not riding on that thing with you!” He stepped away from the bike as though physical distance would better exemplify how completely against this part of the plan he was. Although, looking back, they hadn’t actually settled on the specifics on  _ how _ they’d get to Roman Enterprises. Stupid.

“What’s your suggestion then, Bat Boy?” Dean said with a smirk, clearly believing he’d outsmarted Cas, “The bus?”

“Not exactly…”

Castiel relished in the look of shock on Dean’s face when he pulled the innocuous vehicle cover off his very own Batmobile. Well, mostly. It was a much older version of the Batmobile that Batman currently drove and it worked mostly as a starter hero-car than anything else, but it certainly  _ looked _ cool. Castiel expected Dean to be surprised, but he wasn’t expecting to see a strange sadness settle on Dean’s face as he set a trembling hand onto the sleek black hood of the car.

“Been awhile since I’ve seen this,” Dean murmured, almost to himself.

“You’ve seen this before?”

Dean started, jerking his hand away and tucking it behind his jacket as though the motion would hide the fact he’d done anything at all. “Once,” he blurted out, “A while back. At, um. A parade. Or something. When I was a kid.”

“It must have been when you were young,” Castiel mused, “Batman hasn’t done parades since the loss of his first Robin.” A lot had changed, from what Castiel could tell, between the first Robin and him, though Batman rarely spoke about the other Robin. The little Castiel knew came primarily from hearsay.

“Uh. Yeah, I think I remember that,” Dean ran a thumb along his lower lip, oddly nervous, “I mean, him. Robin.”

“Do you remember anything about him?” Castiel asked eagerly, “Batman is...uh, not particularly forthcoming.” He unlocked the doors, the car was so old it had to be done manually, and watched in surprise when Dean slid into the front seat. He sat in silence for a moment, fingers curling around the wheel before realizing where he was. Embarrassed, Dean left the car, though Castiel noticed he gave the wheel a strange pat on his way out.

“Um, Robin,” Dean said, clearly trying to avoid explaining the strange behavior that had just occurred as he made his way into the passenger seat,  “He was, uh. Cheerful. Real big on putting away bad guys. Had a weird aversion to pants.”

“He didn’t wear pants?”

Dean actually smiled at that, a genuine bright one. “Yeah,” he laughed, “No idea what he was thinking.”

“Well he certainly made an impression,” Castiel stuck the key in the ignition, “Batman truly mourned his passing.”

“Really?” Dean asked as they pulled out of the parking garage, “Seems like Batman just kinda abandoned the guy.”

“Of course not!” Cas was shocked at the implication. He pulled onto the street and began to drive towards their destination. Of course, they couldn’t come barrelling right up to the front of the Roman Enterprises building in the Batmobile, but he could park it a couple blocks away and it would help him get through traffic easier in the meantime. “How could you say that?”

“I mean, rumor has it Batman walked into a sting with Robin and walked out without him, that seems a lot like abandonment to me.”

“That’s rather harsh judgement,” the cars were, as expected, allowing him to pass. Even an old fashioned Batmobile was still a recognizable Batmobile, “I’m sure he did all he could--”

“Yeah, right,” Dean laughed darkly, “I’m sure leaving Robin with Lucifer was an honest attempt to--” he used air quotes,  _ “do all he could _ .”

Castiel sucked in a breath, fingers clenching the wheel a little tighter as he remembered his own encounter with the leader of the Demons. If what Dean was saying was true, and as a criminal he likely had a better ear to the ground with this sort of thing, then it was possible Michael really  _ had _ just left Robin with Lucifer. The thought was horrifying. Castiel wasn’t sure how quickly he would have broken at the realization Michael wasn’t coming to save him.

“You...you don’t know all the facts,” he whispered weakly. Michael wasn’t the kind of man to abandon his own! He couldn’t be! Castiel had poured his teenage and adult years into following the man, obeying his code of morals with exactness because Castiel truly believed it was perfect. 

“I know enough, Bat Boy,” Dean mumbled lowly, staring out the window. “Batman abandoned Robin to die a horrible death and has just...just  _ let _ Lucifer walk free.”

“The legal charges didn’t--”

“ _ Fuck _ the legal charges,” Dean snarled vehemently, “Don’t tell me you honestly don’t think a death sentence is appropriate in that situation.”

“Dean, I…” Castiel trailed off, finding in that moment he was utterly overcome by indecision. All his life it had been so black and white. Killing was bad. Saving lives was good. But it was true, that system meant men like Lucifer and Roman walked free. Still, taking that power of judge, jury and executioner on himself felt like too much power… “I don’t know.”

Dean huffed angrily. “Of course you don’t! You haven’t been affected--”

“Haven’t been affected?” Castiel snapped, turning to glare at Dean to such an extent that he nearly ran them off the road, “I’ve suffered my fair share of Lucifer’s torture. I’ve got the scars to prove it. So don’t you  _ dare _ paint me as some would-be-saint holed up in his ivory tower.”

Dean looked stunned at the retort, one hand clutching the seat rest, another squeezing onto the door handle. He clearly wasn’t expecting Castiel’s response to be so vehement. Or for him to have swerved into the other lane of traffic. 

“You...were captured by Lucifer?” he asked softly, still glancing out the window to ensure there would not be a traffic accident.

“A few years back. One of my last missions as Robin,” Castiel replied grimly, not wanting to remember the atrocities he’d survived any more than he had to.

“And Batman...saved you?” Dean looked hesitant. Good. He ought to. 

Castiel kept his foot firmly planted on the gas pedal, but despite accelerating, it felt like the car was motionless. No, like the whole world was motionless, waiting for the two of them to reach the cusp of...whatever odd connection was happening. Castiel took a deep breath, aware of Dean’s eyes focused back on him.

“No,” he admitted finally, “Meg did.”

And just like that, the world seemed to shift back into motion. Dean looked oddly relieved. “Who’s Meg? Girlfriend?”

Cas scoffed. “Hardly. She’s a Demon.”

Dean sat up straighter. “Seriously?  _ Fergus _ , I didn’t know there was a criminal before me! Was it serious?”

Castiel rolled his eyes as he checked the GPS embedded in the car’s dashboard. They still had a few minutes before they made it to the destination. “I’m acknowledging absolutely none of that.”

To his surprise, Dean merely laughed. A relaxed, hearty laugh. It sounded like honey, warm and rich and absolutely perfect. For a moment, all Castiel could think about was how badly he needed to make Dean laugh again. 

“I’m serious,” Dean wheezed breathlessly after a minute or so of laughter, “Mr. Perfect teaming up with a Demon, how did  _ that  _ happen? Did you bribe her with money?” he paused, eyes widening, “Did you bribe her with your perfect body?”

“You think my body’s perfect?”

“Shut up and answer the question.”

Castiel couldn’t help it, he beamed. “It’s an...odd situation with Meg. I’m not sure who started it first, but she’d save my life because she ‘needed to be even,’” Castiel used air quotes, much to Dean’s horror at him removing his hands from the wheel, “Then I’d save her to even it out and, well, we just kept saving each other.”

“So, you aren’t fully moral after all,” Dean said, leaning back smugly in his seat. “I bet Batman would never have such a scandalous arrangement with a morally abhorrent individual.”

There was a long pause, Castiel again checking the GPS to ensure they were staying on route. “I think there’s still good in her,” he replied thoughtfully, “Just as I think there’s still good in you.”

Dean regarded him curiously, but neither one spoke for the remainder of the drive.

Only when they were within range of the building did Dean speak up, guiding Castiel to an alley he deemed ‘less troublesome than usual.’ Castiel did not want to know how he knew that, instead opting to quietly follow instructions to the desired parking spot. Once settled in amongst the trash, Castiel toggled the “camouflage” switch on the dashboard before hopping out.

“Since when does this model have cloaking?” Dean asked in awe as he admired the nearly invisible car, its reflection just barely noticeable in the alleyway.

Cas tilted his head, surprised. “How do you know it didn’t?”

“I, uh,” Dean drummed his fingers against the hood of the car (a possible sign of deception, Cas noted) “You caught me.” Dean shifted his posture to look relaxed, but Castiel could still see the apprehension in Dean’s eyes. “I was a huge Batman fan as a kid. Knew all about this sort of stuff.”

He laughed awkwardly and looked down at the car again. It was a lie and Castiel knew it, but now was not the time to probe into the odd mystery. They had bigger mysteries to solve. “You’ll have my back at Roman’s, right?” Castiel asked abruptly instead, slamming the car door shut. Roman’s building was only a few blocks east of them.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Dean sputtered, closing his door as he headed to Castiel’s side.

“You’re a wanted criminal, for one,” Castiel shrugged. Truthfully, he already trusted Dean. Aside from the odd comment about the Batmobile. Being a wanted criminal made sense, but his strange connections to Batman still unnerved him. Better to douse those worries in snark. That was what he was good at, anyway.

“Being a wanted criminal and being a backstabber are two entirely different things!”

“Semantics.” Castiel knocked Dean’s shoulder gently and Dean bumped back, grinning. 

Castiel’s phone rang out from the car, the familiar chittering bat-sound of Batman. Dean looked from the car to Castiel curiously. Castiel wavered for a moment. The allure of having backup was tempting. But he’d wanted to prove to Batman that he was capable on his own for years.

And now there was Dean to consider.

“A promise is a promise,” Castiel said with a shrug, leaving the phone in the car as he headed out of the alley with a surprisingly fast stride. Dean had to jog to keep up.

They reached the front doors of the Roman Enterprises building in an unfortunately short amount of time. The exterior was sleek, with a large R.E. on the sidewalk serving as the only real indication that they were in the right place. This was the general Roman Enterprises aesthetic, modern enough to convey steady business growth, but generic enough to not draw too much attention to itself.

Men and women in neatly pressed suits came in and out of the dark rotating door. Castiel wondered idly how many of them knew the criminal nature of the business they worked for, or if Roman Enterprises was for them as other jobs were for so many: just a way to put food on the table. If Castiel’s family hadn’t died, he might have been funneled into one of these very jobs, put in an upper level management positions right out of some prestigious university instead of scoping out the building with a known murderer.

“Remember,” Castiel hissed, his heart pounding as they neared the doors, “No killing.”

“Hopefully we won’t even end up in a situation where I might have to,” Dean retorted softly and with that, the two walked into an opening in the revolving door and down into the belly of the beast.


	6. Of Mice and Hitmen

The interior of the building quite matched the outside. The floor was a shiny white, the walls were sleek and grey, and the windows, though large, strangely did not emit any outdoor light, leaving only fluorescent lighting. All in all, it felt vaguely reminiscent of some dystopian future.

Dean and Cas stood in the atrium, which was large and open. A withered tree sat as a grand centerpiece, its branches nearly black, reminiscent of being burned. Or, Castiel noted, overtaken with some sort of sickness.

“Classy,” Dean murmured, gazing at the tree, “Real elegant touch.”

But Castiel had already moved on, scanning the area to get a feel for the setup. The blueprints he’d managed to procure had been largely lacking in detail; Roman clearly had the money and foresight to ensure the full documents weren’t available to the public. Thankfully, knowing the areas  _ not _ marked as any sort of functioning space actually gave Castiel some ideas of potential access points to explore.

The building was split into four basic sectors, with each sector’s entryway guarded by a security point accessible only by scanning a Roman Enterprises badge. From Castiel’s research, the area to check first happened to be the southeast corner. In general, businessmen and women milled about the atrium and mingled with their coworkers, but those moving in and out of the southeast sector seemed to be the most focused; their faces serious, they seemed to be all business.

Castiel nudged Dean, nodding towards the southeast sector. “That’s where we have to go.”

Dean smirked as the made their way in that direction, passing a few businessmen but thankfully attracting few looks. “You know what else might work as a distraction?” he asked lowly, “Making out. You and me. Right here, right now. That’s bound to turn some heads.”

“Keep it in your pants,” Castiel muttered back, though he felt strangely flattered by Dean’s offer. In any other scenario, he might even be tempted, but he wasn’t tempted now….right? Cas sighed, pushing away the imaginations that sprung up at the offer, “We need a way to swipe a badge and that’s not going to happen without a scuffle for them to physically break apart.”

“I bet at least one of the guys here would try to break it up,” Dean replied confidently, “Plenty of ‘em have that douchebag homophobe look going on.”

“Dean.” They needed to keep moving. Needed to keep to the plan. The more they stalled, the more they talked about this, well, it wasn’t exactly helping Castiel’s mind stay on track. Castiel took another step forwards, but paused when he saw Dean hadn’t moved. Irritation was rising, as was the temptation to give the logically stupid plan a try.

“C’mon, you’d rather get a punch to the gut than one measly kiss? If it doesn’t work we can  _ easily _ turn it into a violent lover’s spat--”

Irritation won out. That or temptation; Castiel wasn’t sure, wasn’t even thinking clearly as he grabbed Dean by the tie and tugged him in for a fierce kiss. Dean, to Castiel’s surprise,  _ melted _ and gently wrapped his arms around Castiel’s waist as he kissed back.

It was warm and tender and soft and-- _ abort, abort _ . Castiel’s reasoning mind kicked in and he tugged away, heart pounding. Aside from a few curious looks in their direction, nobody had noticed and they certainly weren’t trying to break them up. Not even close. All the kiss had been good for was making Castiel absolutely certain he wanted more. And that was  _ definitely _ not part of the plan.

“Well, we’re still short a badge,” Castiel said, taking a step back from Dean as he tried to compose himself, “Guess it didn’t work as well as you hoped.”

“Or did it?” Dean asked, pulling two badges from his jacket pocket with the world’s biggest shit-eating grin.

“ _ How? _ ”

“Trained criminal,” Dean whispered with a cheerful shrug as Castiel reached for a badge, “You really think I need to cause a scene to pick a pocket or two?”

“So the kiss was pointless!”

“Ah, not pointless!” Dean dropped a badge in Castiel’s outstretched hand with an exaggerated sultry wink, “You kissed me in the hopes you’d procure a badge and looky here! You succeeded!”

“I hate you,” Castiel grumbled as he tapped the badge to the scanner, which flashed green and unlocked the door.

“Damn good kisser though, Clarence,” Dean replied as he followed Castiel through the doorway, trench coat flapping dramatically behind him.

“Not my name,” Cas huffed a laugh, “Though Meg would be thrilled, she’s been trying to get that nickname to take off.”

“Did you kiss her too?”

“A gentleman never kisses and tells,” Cas said smugly, smiling as his sense of pride at Dean’s grumbling overtook his desire to kiss Dean again. Momentarily, anyway.

Thankfully, a distraction appeared around the corner in the form of a large glass laboratory. A few men and women in lab coats worked inside, though the majority of the room was made up of various large machines. Vials filled with different colors of liquids lined one wall, as well as a couple of cages filled with white mice.

“Well, this seems out of place for a communications department,” Dean muttered lowly, “What are the odds our badges let us in?”

Not good, apparently; the red light on the scanner confirmed their suspicions. “Likely for the best,” Castiel muttered, peering into the room, “If we’d gotten in they might have known off the bat that something was wrong.”

Dean snickered.

“What?” Cas turned on him, eyes narrowing.

“Nothing,” Dean snickered again, “You just said...right off the  _ bat _ . Like, y’know. Batman.”

“Well, wise guy, do you have an  _ actual _ solution for us?”

That sobered Dean up. “Not exactly.” 

Castiel surveyed the room, catching the eye of one woman with vibrant red hair and a rainbow t-shirt who was working on one of the large computers. She smiled hesitantly and a vague plan slid into place. “Follow my lead,” Castiel muttered, knocking on the glass. The redhead wavered for a moment, but when Castiel knocked again, she slid out of her chair and made her way to the door where they stood.

“What do you need, sir?” she asked. “We’re pretty busy today.”

“Inspection,” Castiel said gruffly, adopting the voice he used when dealing with criminals, “My associate and I have been sent to ensure everything is running in order here.”

The woman frowned. “Nobody warned us--”

“Damn corporate,” Castiel muttered, “Do they know how hard it is to set up this interdepartmental shit? I finally get someone,” he swung a hand to point at Dean, “And now you’re telling me corporate hasn’t even bothered to let you guys know?”

“Sir,” the woman held up a hand, “I can’t just--”

Castiel leaned in close, his voice lowering to a growl, “ _ You don’t understand, _ ” he said, locking eyes with the woman’s, “ _ I need to get this done now _ .”

“I wouldn’t mess with him,” Dean chimed in, “He strangled my secretary when she told him I was in a meeting. Had to send her to the hospital.”

“Is this supposed to be convincing me to let you in?” the woman asked, taking a step away from the door.

“I dunno,” Dean replied, nudging Castiel aside to give a truly dazzling smile to the woman. He even went so far as to loosen his tie slightly, clearly trying to appear more laid back and casual, “Is it working, beautiful?”

“Ugh,” the woman rolled her eyes, “I think I prefer Mr. I-Strangled-A-Secretary’s approach.”

“I’m wounded,” Dean replied, placing a hand on his heart in mock horror.

“I’m gay.” 

The woman smirked as Dean and Cas shared a worried look, before adding, “But also very intrigued as to how two strange men managed to get past security.”

“We’re…” Dean trailed off, looking to Cas as he fidgeted with the briefcase.

“Fans,” Castiel interjected, “Very big fans of your work here.”

“Fans of my top secret work?”

“If it’s the same...top secret work…” Dean spoke slowly, clearly trying to come up with an idea while already in motion, “...that’s available on the underground...then yes?”

To both their surprise, the woman tensed up with a glare. “You both got balls, tracking me down  _ here _ . How did you even--”

She was cut off, however, as a man in a lab coat approached. Between the carefully pressed vest beneath the coat and his thick salt-and-pepper beard, he looked like a stereotypical academic. But the look in his eyes was cruel. Cold.

“Charlie,” the man said cooly, setting a hand on her shoulder, “Who are our guests?”

Charlie flinched, her eyes scared. She looked from Dean and Castiel to the man and back, clearly weighing her options. “Apparently there’s a surprise inspection, Ishim,” she said finally.

Ishim’s brow raised. Castiel found himself reaching for his escrima sticks, but Dean stopped him.

“The name’s Jensen,” Dean interjected smoothly, “And this muscle man here, Misha, was sent from Roman himself to make sure the job got done right.” He and Ishim locked eyes, Dean smirking confidently.

“While I question the timing,” Ishim side-eyed the woman, “I’m sure  _ Charlie _ would be more than happy to show you around.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze, offering an insincere smile as she slowly punched in a code. The door unlocked with a  _ click _ and she pushed it open, gesturing for them to enter. Ishim watched, shaking both their hands. For a moment he seemed to be returning to his desk, but he hesitated.

“Excuse me, everyone?” Ishim announced to the lab, “Corporate sent down a crew to make sure everything is running in order.  _ Charlie _ is going to lead Jensen and Misha here around, they should be out of our hair soon.”

Everyone looked up from their work. One woman looked especially annoyed. “Why would they do this? They know today’s the big day.”

Charlie shrugged, “You know Chuck. He was probably so focused on writing his novel that he forgot to let us know.”

Muttered complaints rippled throughout the lab. Apparently this wasn’t the first time. “So,” Dean said, “Grand tour?”

Ishim, who had apparently said his peace, shrugged. “I’ll leave you in Charlie’s capable hands,” he said, smiling insincerely before making his way back to his desk.

“Slimy bastard,” Charlie muttered after Ishim was gone, “I need you on your best behavior. I mean, I did before too, but now my ass is really on the line here.”

“Then I guess nothing can go wrong,” Dean replied, following Charlie into the lab. “Though I guess it could if I accidentally used your real name.”  “The only way it  _ could _ ,” he added lowly to Cas, “is if your cover name revealed your secret identity.”

“Given you’ve somehow managed to find a cover more ridiculous than the name I was given at birth,” Castiel hissed back, “I think not.”

“If you’ll follow me, we’ll actually take a look around,” Charlie nodded as she lead them to a row of large machines, a mass of wires stringing from the machines to other sources in the lab. “These are our processors. They do most of the grunt work for people like me, whose job is to code and analyze the data.”

Dean made a show of leaning in to inspect the wires and Castiel followed suit. In a strange way, this cold, mechanical room reminded him of Michael’s Bat Cave. Likely because it put function above comfort. “And the data is…?” Castiel asked, running a finger along a thick yellow wire.

“With Roman’s backing, we’ve managed to discover more about the human genome than any other group out there,” Charlie said with a shrug, leading them past the large processors and towards the cages of mice.

Dean gasped. “Who else knows about this?”

“Nobody, yet,” Charlie hissed, glancing around. They seemed to have touched a nerve and Castiel wondered if it had anything to do with her potentially illegal activities, “Roman’s got it against the rules. As in I pretty much signed away my soul to work here.”

“As does anyone working in corporate,” Cas muttered. Charlie, to his surprise, huffed a laugh.

“You have no idea,” she said with a grin as one of the mice started to run on its wheel, “I took a real blow to the ego when I left my old job for this.”

“And your old job was…?”

“Hacking,” Charlie said with a shrug, “Or Queen of Moondor, depending on the weekend.”

“Hold up,” Dean said, stopping so suddenly that Castiel nearly walked right into him, “ _ You’re _ the Queen of Moondor? I spent  _ months _ trying to earn an audience with her!”

Castiel frowned. “What sort of illegal--”

“Nah, this isn’t actually illegal,” Dean said, waving Castiel’s concerns off with one hand while extending the other for Charlie to shake again, “Unless you’re one of those people who thinks Live Action Role Play is a crime.”

“Live action--”

“LARPing,” Charlie cut in, “You dress up in fantastical costumes and spend the day doing things like shopping at a medieval market or fighting neighboring clans…”

“Let me get this straight,” Cas turned to Dean, smirking, “You take a break from being in costume fighting other people in costume...by getting into another costume to fight people in other costumes.”

Dean turned slightly pink. “Shut up.”

“What on earth do you do?” Charlie asked with wide eyes.

“Wrestler,” Dean said, right as Castiel said, “Themed restaurant performer.”

Charlie quirked an eyebrow at them, but made no mention of the glaring inconsistency. “Anyway,” she said, “With the discoveries we’ve made to the human genome, we’re also working on finding ways to improve it. Making people stronger, smarter, less susceptible to disease, that kind of thing.”

“So you’re testing on mice?” Castiel squinted at one of the cages, where a few white mice burrowed under a pile of wood chips. All in all, they seemed pretty ordinary.

“Better than testing directly on humans,” Charlie shrugged, “Their behaviors and genetics are close enough to humans as it is, and besides, some of the experiments have had pretty terrifying results.”

Dean and Cas shared a look. “Results like what?” Castiel asked as they watched one white mouse climb his glass cage like a lizard might, all four paws sticking to the glass. Neither of them had heard about biochemicals boosting human performance, but both had heard rumors of Roman’s food being drugged, at least to some degree.

“Well,” Charlie hummed, tapping the glass of one cage of mice, “If we’re lucky, the mice just get apathetic. I mean,” she added, glancing at Dean and Cas, “It’s not an ideal scenario. If they remain apathetic for too long, they die from starvation, but…” she pointed to another cage. Upon closer examination, Castiel could see a myriad of tiny claw marks scraped into the glass. “...it beats the alternative.”

“Which is?”

“They go apeshit crazy and die shortly after.”

“No shit,” Dean whistled. “Crazy how?”

“Well,” Charlie lead them past the mice cages and towards a long row of glass vials, “Extremely violent. I watched one try to bite another mouse’s head off. All the while their insides dissolve into...this.” She pulled one of the glass vials from the shelf, handing it to Castiel.

The inside was totally black, the consistency viscous, almost tar-like. “This is their insides?” Castiel whispered, horrified.

“One of our techs wasn’t careful enough cutting one open and it squirted everywhere,” Charlie confided, grinning at the looks of disgust on Castiel and Dean’s faces.

“Do you think the mice are close enough to humans for this to happen to them?” Castiel asked, aghast as he shoved the vial into Dean’s unwilling hands.

Charlie shrugged. “I’m not head of this experiment, Azazel is, so he’d know better than me, but I doubt it would ever reach the general public.”

“And you trust this guy, Azazel?” Dean asked, “He doesn’t strike you as the guy to, I dunno...”

Silence fell over the group, all three staring at the vial. Castiel was contemplating the insinuations of Dean’s statement when a voice behind them said, “Ah, speak of the devil and he shall come.”

Charlie’s eyes widened and she took several rapid breaths to try and school her face into one of less surprise. “Azazel,” she squeaked, turning slowly to face the man, who was flanked by a smirking Ishim, “What are you doing here?” 

Azazel was nearly bald, his remaining hair patchy. He leered at the group, the whites of his eyes slightly yellowed, and Castiel felt a shiver run down his spine. Not often was Castiel scared, but this was one of those times. Without thinking, he felt his hands creep towards his escrima sticks.

“Just checking up on our... _ inspectors _ ,” he spat the last word in a tone that clearly implied he wasn’t buying their story, “After all, corporate wouldn’t want us to get delayed on the day of our big presentation.”

“Of course, sir,” Charlie actually took a step back as Azazel closed in on her space. He smelled strangely of rot.

“So I’m sure you won’t mind if I called security on them,” Azazel crooned, Charlie taking another step back, “And, of course, they’d check up on you, for letting them in and showing them around…”

Castiel glanced at Dean, strangely relieved to see that Dean was reaching for his escrima stick too. By now, Charlie had backed nearly behind the two of them, peering up at Azazel from between Cas and Dean’s shoulders. “Yeah, of course, no problem…” Charlie replied, though her voice wobbled ever so slightly.

“Good,” Azazel growled, “Because I’ve already called them.”

As he said those words, an alarm started blaring. Both Castiel and Dean had their escrima sticks out in a flash. “Stay back,” Dean shouted, pushing Charlie roughly out of harm’s way. Azazel merely raised an eyebrow. He seemed oddly unfazed at the current development. Ishim looked more rattled, but pretended otherwise.

“You can’t possibly expect to fight your way through security,” Azazel sneered.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Dean shrugged, flipping the escrima stick with surprising ease, “But in the meantime, I could get the information I need from you.”

Before anyone could react, Dean slammed his escrima stick into Azazel’s knee with expert precision. There was a gruesome cracking noise and Azazel buckled with a strangled cry. The rest of the staff watched in horror; Ishim backed away, the confidence he’d harbored before now completely gone. Charlie was nowhere to be seen.

“Answer my questions and that’ll be the only broken bone you’ll have to deal with.”

“Dean,” Castiel said warningly. Jumping straight into torture was not something he’d agreed to. Admittedly, he’d made the mistake of simply outlining a no-killing policy, but that didn’t excuse Dean’s method. Not only was it cruel, it was dangerous. They had no idea if this torture would scare the rest of the staff, or motivate one of them to play hero.

“What are you really testing?” Dean growled, holding up the escrima stick threateningly as he set down the briefcase he’d been carrying. 

“Chemical warfare,” Azazel wheezed, clutching his knee, “But you already suspected that, didn’t you?”

“Where are you testing it today?”

“Wouldn’t you like to--” Azazel’s snarky retort was cut off by another scream of pain as Dean broke his arm. A ripple of gasps ran through the lab. Charlie, who had resurfaced in the fray at a computer, didn’t react as she worked intently.

“As a matter of fact, I would,” Dean smirked. His hands were perfectly steady, despite the circumstances, and he held himself with total self-assurance. No wonder so many criminals were afraid of him. There were many people who talked about being judge, jury and executioner, but Dean was one of the few who actually followed through.

“Go to hell,” Azazel hissed, glaring up at Dean. His teeth were clenched, it was clearly more painful than Azazel was letting on.

“Already been, didn’t agree with me,” Dean replied cheerfully, flipping his escrima stick again. Castiel felt like he should intervene, but couldn’t seem to make himself move. He was frozen in place, his escrima sticks hanging uselessly as he watched. 

“Now,” Dean continued, lifting his weapon for another blow, “Before you lose even more dignity in front of your employees, I’d suggest you answer my question.”

Azazel forced another laugh, though it was little more than a wet gurgle, “Go f--”

His statement was cut short, however, by a blow to the head. Azazel slumped onto the floor, totally unconscious, as Castiel glared at Dean. It might not have been the wisest decision, choosing to knock Azazel out, but it did stop Dean’s interrogation in its tracks.

“What the hell?” Dean shouted, “I was getting crucial information!”

“You were torturing a man and getting  _ nowhere _ ,” Castiel replied harshly, both escrima sticks raised in defense, “We don’t--”

“I was getting closer,” Dean snarled, stepping closer to Castiel, who was beginning to fear a physical altercation, “And that information is crucial. A man testing elaborate poisons has a very important meeting today and reading between the lines, I’m pretty sure that means  _ human test subjects _ .”

“You cannot pretend to care about human lives when you--” Castiel growled, his nose inches from Dean’s.

“What? Because I beat up a scumbag?” Dean’s voice dropped even lower and Castiel’s heart began to beat faster.  _ Damn _ , it was unfortunate someone so hot was something like, well, Dean.

“As much as I’d love to watch this dazzling display of fragile masculinity,” Charlie interrupted, calling out from her computer, “I’ve found the location you’re looking for.”

Both Castiel and Dean swiveled to stare in her direction. Castiel could feel his chest bump against Dean’s ever so slightly in the process.

“What?” Charlie shrugged, “I mentioned I was good with computers.” When neither of them moved, she waved her hand at them, “But you gotta look at this.”

The two crowded around her in moments and again Castiel was oddly aware of their physical closeness. Charlie pulled their attention back to the screen, however. She seemed to have gained access to a complex scheduling document. Most of it was utterly unintelligible, but she’d highlighted two addresses, both of which were inside the building.

“Why two?” Castiel asked, feeling as though he was stating the obvious.

“Not sure,” Charlie admitted, “But that first address looks like one of our public access areas, which leads me to wonder off they’ll confine the targets in one room and set off the device in another.”

“How do you know it’s a device?” Dean asked.

“I’ve been part of these experiments,” Charlie said, “We started with drugs in the food, but recently moved onto airborne tests which we triggered to release from small metallic devices.”

“So either we take a gamble on what room to storm--” Castiel mused.

“--or split up,” Dean replied, “Try to evacuate the victims  _ and _ stop the device from ever being set off in the first place.”

“Hands in the air!”

A rough voice interrupted their planning. Castiel turned to see at least a dozen security officers leveling guns in their direction through the glass windows of the lab. Even if the glass was bulletproof, which seemed likely, it wouldn’t be long before they were inside.

Charlie swore. “Miscalculated. I thought you’d have another two minutes…”

Dean looked at the security team and smirked. “I dunno, these seem like reasonable odds to me,” he patted the briefcase confidently with the escrima stick and sent a wink in Cas’ direction, “Almost feel bad for ‘em.”

Castiel frowned as the guards pounded on the door. Honestly, the odds weren’t fantastic. But perhaps a dash of Dean’s absurd overconfidence was exactly the sort of thing that he could use right now. Castiel mustered a smile, glancing at the briefcase as he mentally reviewed its contents. “Should we dazzle the newcomers?”

Dean unlocked the briefcase to retrieve a flash grenade. “Now you’re talking sense, Coriander.”

“That’s not a name and you know it,” Castiel retorted, readying his escrima sticks. He risked one last glance at Charlie’s computer to memorize the addresses. His memory was nearly photographic, so it didn’t hurt to review the information once or twice to ensure it stuck. He didn’t want to take any chances.

“They’ve got the code!” Charlie squeaked, pointing to one security officer in particular who’d switched from banging the end of his gun against the glass to inputting a string of numbers into the lock device. 

“All of you,” Cas barked, “Close your eyes and  _ stay down _ .” He flicked on his escrima sticks and fixed Dean with a glare, adding, “And  _ no _ casualties.”

“No unnecessary casualties, got it.”

“That’s not--” Castiel’s frantic response was cut off as the door was unlocked, security storming into the room. Their jet black masks obscured their faces and they leveled pretty heavy duty weaponry at Dean and Cas. The other lab workers dropped to the floor, including, thankfully, Charlie. Cas settled into a fighting position as he stared down the gunmen. No matter how many times he’d been at gunpoint, the initial shock never seemed to lessen.

“Both of you put your hands in the air!” the leader of the group barked as the door swung open. Behind him, other security officers were pouring into the room. “Resistance is futile.”

“Gotta love the police,” Dean said cheerfully, raising both hands above his head. One firmly clenched the flash grenade. “They really brighten my day.” He pulled the pin with one hand and tossed the grenade to the floor, where a blinding white light filled the room.

Castiel closed his eyes for the prescribed number of seconds (he’d trained with these grenades more times than he could count as a teenager) before taking off in a sprint towards the bewildered officers. He took two out with dual shocks from his escrima sticks, both falling to the floor with a cry. To his other side, Dean clocked one in the head with his escrima stick. Three down, another half dozen to go.

The remaining officers were stumbling into the room, a few clearly sent to ensure the equipment and the lab workers were safe. Good. That would keep the fray down to a more manageable fight for the time being. Of course, with the blinding wearing off, one had already leveled a gun at Castiel again. He dodged, barely, the bullet shattering Azazel’s computer monitor. A swift kick to the guard’s hand sent the gun clattering to the floor.

“Now it’s more of a fair fight,” Castiel smirked, sending a fist into the man’s chest. He went falling to the ground, Castiel pressing a foot to his chest as he sent electricity into the man, knocking him unconscious. He looked up to find Dean battling three at once, the trench coat catching air dramatically as Dean fought with expert precision. Still, three on one was never a great fight and although Dean managed to take one down and disarm another, it wasn’t going over well.

As Castiel ran across the lab to Dean, however, he was stopped by Charlie. “Misha, you gotta get you and Jensen out of the lab  _ now _ .”

“But there’s other--”

“I’m on it,” Charlie replied, strangely confident for being a civilian in the throes of a real fight. Castiel wondered if her hacking had landed her in dangerous situations before, or if it was simply the adrenaline of the situation. Maybe both. “Just get the hell out and do it fast.”

There was no time for responses, so Castiel just nodded and raced back to Dean, who’d taken a few blows. His lip was bleeding and no doubt there were other injuries sustained. He was fighting hand to hand with the man he’d disarmed, his escrima stick on the floor nearby, all while dodging the occasional shot fired by the commander any time he thought he had a clear hit.

“Man shoots at my partner,” Castiel growled as he wrapped an arm around the commander’s neck, held steady by a flickering escrima stick, “What happens next will shock you.” He plunged the other escrima stick into the man’s side, sending him plummeting to the ground. Without the added strain of dodging a gunman, Dean finished up his fight quickly. Still, there were at least four officers around the lab, armed and unharmed.

“Get out!” Charlie shouted and Dean and Cas did, Dean scooping up the briefcase he’d dropped  on the way out. Of course, the security team tried to follow suit, but as the door swung closed behind Dean and Cas, a red light turned on within the lab and an automated announcement began:

_ Warning. Contamination alert. Lab on lockdown. _

One of the security officers tried to open the door, but to no avail. It had locked from the inside, effectively making them prisoners. Castiel hesitated for one moment, but Charlie’s confident thumbs up sent him and Dean running again.

“I will say this,” Dean huffed while they ran down the hall, “That’s one ballsy girl.”

“How long do you think we’ve got till security sends another team?”

“What makes you think I’ll know that?”

Cas shrugged as they sprinted, leather jacket flapping against his sides, “You’re...y’know…”

Dean groaned. “Just because I’m a criminal doesn’t automatically mean I know how everyone’s individual security teams operate.”

A noise caught their attention, and before Castiel knew what was happening, Dean had grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him into the doorway of one of the rooms. They stood, nearly pressed together as another team of security raced past them, clearly off to help their trapped colleagues.

“Like that right there?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Having ears isn’t reserved for criminals. Do you remember where we’re supposed to go?” he added, clearly trying to change the topic.

“Rooms 22 E and 69 S.”

Dean smothered a laugh. Castiel shot him a glare, continuing, “22E is likely where the civilians are, it’s closer to the atrium. Feels more public. We could both try--”

“--but that would risk them setting off the device before we’d evacuated,” Dean concluded, “It would be smarter for one of us to head to the upper level.” He wiped the blood from his lip with the palm of his hand, feeling his face. “Do I have any bruises? I gotta look professional if I’m going--”

“What makes you think you’re going up there?” Castiel asked as they both ducked out of the doorway and continued down the hall. Aside from his scuffed lip, Dean looked fine, but Castiel wasn’t about to tell him as much.

“You really think you could pull of the professional businessman look, Mr. Sex-Hair-And-Leather Jacket?”

“That jacket was  _ your _ idea!” Castiel snapped, glancing down at the jacket as they raced down the hall. It was a nice looking jacket, but it certainly didn’t inspire much professionalism.

“Mmmm, yeah,” Dean grinned, clearly checking Cas out from the side, “Don’t regret that decision one bit. So it’s agreed, I go up, you go down?”

“I hardly have a choice at this point,” Castiel growled as they walked out of the security checkpoint and into the atrium. Evidently Roman Enterprises was only concerned with keeping people out, not in, as the doorway out was surprisingly lax in security staff. The atrium looked just as it had when they arrived; their lab break-in had little effect on the grand scheme of the building. Good. Anonymity, for however long it would last, could only aid in their cause.

“Good,” Dean replied, his gait slowing as they reached the dead tree in the middle of the atrium. Then, very unexpectedly, he took Castiel’s face in his calloused palms and kissed him hard and fast. “Be safe,” he muttered as he pulled away.

“What...what was that for?” Castiel absentmindedly touched his lips as he stared at Dean. Any of his planning for the mission stalled to a complete halt as he tried to comprehend what happened. And how he felt about it, because it currently seemed like everything he’d known was sliding upside down.

“It’s just...never wanted someone I worked with to survive before,” Dean was beet red. He clapped Castiel on the shoulder and took off in a run towards his destination.

“Wait!” Castiel called out after a momentary deliberation. Dean stopped. Castiel held out one of his escrima sticks. “Trade? You might as well have a working one.”

Dean grinned as he returned to Castiel’s side, swapping out weapons. Castiel also grabbed a few odds and ends at random from the briefcase, stuffing them into the inner lining of the leather jacket. Dean certainly was prepared with that thing. Once they were done, Dean again turned to leave and again, Castiel stopped him, grabbing his shoulder.

“You’re on the right track,” Castiel said, almost shyly, “With the name Clarence.”

“Type of name or letter?” Dean asked curiously.

“...both.”

“So a weird name that starts with C...” Dean mused aloud as he turned on his heel to head back to his security checkpoint. “Stay safe, Carmichael!”

“I hate you,” Castiel muttered, though he was smiling as he made his way to his checkpoint. It was only then that he realized he had little idea what gadgets he’d taken for himself. Not to mention Dean, a known criminal, had the rest. And that wasn’t even getting started on whether or not they’d make it in time.

_ Not _ his most well-planned mission.

Dean's stolen card appeared to work as he made it into the sector without triggering any alarms. Castiel held his breath as he approached his own security checkpoint, tucking the escrima sticks back into Dean’s leather jacket, fumbling for the badge Dean had stolen for him. He pressed it to the pad, which turned green with a loud beep.

Still, Castiel wasn’t about to assume his luck would hold, breaking into a run as soon as he made it through. Time was running out, even if (and that was a big  _ if _ ) security wasn’t onto him. He raced down the hall, bypassing an elevator in favor of stairs. His heart pounded, a frantic staccato of  _ must save them, must save them, must save them _ , with every footfall.

The hallways were eerily empty; the white walls clean and bare in a way that seemed slightly too sterile. Castiel ascended the staircase in what seemed like seconds. If they pulled this off, not only would they save lives and possibly have enough to take down Roman, Batman would have no choice but to respect him as an equal.

22 E came into sight as Castiel rounded the corner. He pushed open the door, not even bothering to peek through the window as he thanked every major deity that it was unlocked. He was terrified of what he might find within.

To his surprise, however, it merely looked like a party. Women and children, all nicely dressed, milled about, eating a variety of expensive hors d’oeuvres and desserts. Classy decorations lined the walls, an ice sculpture of an intimidating warrior brandishing a sword sat in the middle of the room, and the sign “Congratulations on the Merger” hung along one wall.

The light chatter ceased as Castiel stepped into the room, the entire group stopping to stare at him. One sole security officer, dressed in formal security clothing and snacking on a puff pastry, reacted first. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said indignantly, the pastry still awkwardly in his hand, halfway to his mouth.

Castiel sighed, stepping towards the man. “I’m so sorry about this,” he said as he pulled the non-electrified escrima stick from his jacket and sent it crashing into the man’s head. He fell, the puff pastry splattering on the drab carpet. Castiel looked up to find the group was still staring. Almost creepily, even, as though devoid of any fear.

“We need to evacuate this room,” Castiel announced.

Almost on cue, however, the door swung shut, locking with an audible  _ click _ . Castiel swore. Of  _ course _ they’d lock down their test subjects. It wouldn’t have even been noticeable, either, if Castiel hadn’t arrived when he had. The real question was, why had these people been chosen? They looked well off, meaning their absence would likely be investigated. More than a homeless man’s disappearance, anyway. Castiel frowned as he surveyed the room for a clue.

The crowd still stared at him, almost in a stupor. That couldn’t be good.

If the doors were locking down, time had to be running out. Castiel checked his pockets for Bat gadgets. There was a tracking mechanism, a small flare and...oh, thank goodness: a minuscule lock picking device. Perhaps luck was smiling on him after all. 

He attached it to the door, waiting only a minute or so before there was another loud  _ click _ . Castiel kicked the door and, much to his relief, it swung open. 

“Everyone out! Now!” he roared, but to his horror, the group  _ still _ stared. It was weird. Unnatural. There were around 20 people in the room, surely  _ someone _ should have moved by now.

That was when he remembered the other drugs Roman Enterprises had been testing. The ones that Charlie had showed them, where the mice had grown so docile they’d allowed themselves to die. Drugs administered  _ in the food _ . 

Great.

Unsure what to do, Castiel grabbed a woman by the wrist. He was afraid he’d have to drag her kicking and screaming out of the room, but to his surprise, she allowed herself to be guided out the door. Well. Turned out the drugs weren’t  _ all _ bad. 

He scanned the walls as he re-entered the room. There were cameras in two corners and a black box in a third, the latter of which blinked a steady green light. He kept an eye on it as he evacuated another, then a third, and so on. Castiel was about halfway through when the box beeped.

_ Shit. _

“We have to go  _ now! _ ” Castiel growled, scooping three children in his arms as he barrelled out the door. The beeping grew more frequent, Castiel dragging two more out of the room. He’d just managed to save another three when the door swung closed behind him, the lock clicking again. There must have been a failsafe. He should have expected it, what with the immense dangers of testing a dangerous airborne drug, but he was still surprised when it happened.

The dazed people in the hallway did not react, though many slowly slumped against the wall. Castiel kicked the door, but it did not budge. He swore. There were still two more women inside--three, counting the security guard. The black box beeped loudly, then suddenly was silent.

Castiel watched through the window. At first, it seemed as though nothing had happened. The women even resumed eating pastries. And then he saw it. A pitch black vein creeping up one of the woman’s arms, along her neck, spreading outwards like a tree. Her eyes no longer looked glazed, but rather, feral. 

She let out a sound that was hardly recognizable as human, then lunged at the other woman, who was also beginning to exhibit the black veins. They grappled violently, Castiel wincing at every  _ thump _ and  _ crack _ as he stood, frozen, unsure if it was even  _ safe _ to try and get them. When one impaled the other on the sharp sword of the ice sculpture, Castiel looked away, feeling sick. He was supposed to have saved everyone, this wasn’t supposed to happen. Then two thoughts occurred to him, almost simultaneously.

Things were moving faster than he or Batman could have possibly imagined. This sort of technology could wreak mayhem.

And, if the device had been triggered, Dean had been too late. 

Castiel’s mind immediately jumped to the second problem, conjuring up a myriad reasons why. None of them were good. He glanced at the people in the hallway, all still looking fairly drugged up. Should he leave them? Get help? Castiel licked his dry lips as he surveyed the group, ultimately deciding to leave them. After all, someone was bound to check on them, especially after Castiel had evacuated them from the room. In fact, security was likely to be on its way now.

Off to find Dean it was.

There were a few options. He could go back the way he’d come, but that was risky. Getting in and out of the security checkpoint for the third time seemed to be tempting fate, and besides, guards were likely coming from that direction. Which left ascending the stairs until he reached the 6th floor, which, unlike the first 5, connected all four of the sectors together. 

Castiel took off in a run. He nearly knocked over an older gentleman on his way to the staircase, who’d likely peeked out of his office to see what all the noise in the hallway was, and accidentally slammed into a woman on the fifth floor, who refused his offer to help her up with a muttered curse.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a glass door behind her, only then realizing he had not put on his mask. A sick feeling of dread settled into his stomach. Could he have more effectively evacuated the civilians if he’d been wearing the symbol of heroism? He paused for a moment to slip the mask onto his face before continuing on. Better late than never.

The sixth floor was loud. Whatever Dean had done, or tried to do, it had certainly caused a stir. Castiel ran in the direction of the source of the noise. As it grew louder, so did the crowd of curious onlookers, all in slick expensive suits. They were congregated at a wide window of what appeared to be a conference room. Castiel pushed his way to the front of the group to peer inside.

The interior of the room was chaos. Two security officers lay on the ground, unconscious. There were at least a half dozen businessmen, all cowering. One businessman lay on the table, blood soaking through his neatly pressed white shirt. Castiel craned his neck to look into the far end of the room, searching for the source of the chaos.

It was Dean. With a gun.


	7. Call Me a Toilet, It's All Gone to Shit

The glass was soundproof. Castiel discovered as much when he watched Dean shout something. He pointed the gun at a middle aged gentleman with sleek salt and pepper hair, but whatever the man said in response, it wasn’t to Dean’s liking. He stepped forwards, pressing the gun to the man’s forehead, pointing to the body on the table. It was in that moment that it hit Castiel that Dean might actually kill the man.

_ Where did he even get the gun? _

The door was locked. Of course. Everything had to be done the hard way, didn’t it? Castiel slammed his escrima stick into the window. The glass cracked, but only barely. Still, it was enough to catch Dean’s attention. He looked genuinely aghast to see Castiel. The man, sensing a distraction, tried to escape and Dean reacted in a flash, slamming the man against the wall, arm pressed into his windpipe.

Castiel, ignoring the growing frightened comments of the crowd, sent his weapon into the window again. The crack grew bigger. Again. It spread. Again...and then the whole window was collapsing, glass shards raining everywhere. Members of the crowd shrieked, many of them jumping backwards to avoid getting hurt.

“How could you possibly--” Dean growled at the man, whirling around to face Castiel. His eyes widened, though he kept the man pressed down, gun to his temple.

“Don’t shoot him,” Castiel said, surveying the room closer. On the wall behind him was a monitor, which seemed to be connected to the room Castiel had evacuated. By now, blood was splattered everywhere. The body still dangled from the end of the ice sculpture, but to his horror it was missing a leg. The other woman was hunched over, vomiting out large quantities of black liquid which, if Charlie’s research team was right, had to be her own decomposing body.

Castiel couldn’t look any longer. He turned away, drawing his gaze instead to what was happening with Dean. His trench coat was now flecked with blood, but aside from a few bruises, Dean looked fine. The man, on the other hand, nursed a bruise across his cheekbone and shook from fear. Whether or not he was guilty was hard to tell, but regardless, the man certainly wasn’t the sort who’d been hardened by years of gang fighting in the streets. The gun really rattled him.

It rattled Castiel too.

“Bat Boy, you don’t understand,” Dean’s voice was rough, “He’s scum. He was willing to brutally murder people. Murder women and, and  _ children! _ ”

“We could use him…” Castiel said, trying to appeal to Dean’s practical side. He took a step forwards, foot catching on an unconscious body on the floor. At least, he hoped it was unconscious. It was hard to tell.

“Oh, I’ve already gotten all I need to know,” Dean sneered, pressing his arm harder against the man’s windpipe. “The only question left is how painful of a death does he want?”

“Dean,” Castiel begged, taking another step forwards. He locked his eyes on Dean’s form and did not look away. “Forget about him. What will this cost you?”

“I could pay,” the man wheezed, “My field of work is more lucrative than you could imagine, you’d be set for li--”

He was cut off mid-word by the blast of Dean’s gun, blood spraying everywhere as his body fell to the floor. Screams erupted from the businessmen and women, both inside and out. Dean wiped the blood from his cheek, though it still left a smear. In fact, blood was everywhere. “That’s what you get,” Dean’s voice trembled with barely concealed anger, “thinking I could be  _ paid off _ with the money you earned doing that to  _ kids _ .”

“ _ Dean! _ ” Castiel shouted and Dean looked into his eyes at last. Castiel barely recognized what he saw. Dean’s face was smeared with blood and the look in his eyes was a blazing fury. It was enough to scare Castiel, just a little, just enough for him to take a step away from Dean. Dean’s expression wavered in that moment, hurt. Sad. But another glance at the body on the floor and Dean was back to his righteous fury.

“You don’t know what he did,” Dean growled, “He deserved that. No. He deserved  _ worse _ .”

“And who are you to decide?”

“Do you know how many people I killed?” Dean retorted, taking a step closer to Castiel, “Two.  _ Just _ . Two. Everyone else is knocked out cold or trembling like cowards. And the ones I killed, Bat Boy? They deserved it.”

Castiel was thrown by that statement. Sure enough, looking down at the other bodies in the room, their breathing was evident. For a Red Hood raid, the body count was admittedly low. But the most surprising thing was Dean was trying to justify his actions to Castiel. Perhaps Castiel’s admonition to limit the body count meant something to him after all.

Not enough, though. Two were still dead.

“I...we…” Castiel tripped over the words as he tripped over another body on the floor. As he picked himself up, he couldn’t help but notice the crowd growing steadily bigger. They had to get out of here. He’d...well, he’d deal with Dean later. Leaving him to fend for himself seemed cruel, especially as, strange as it sounded, Dean truly appeared to be trying to curb his violence. “Fire escape. Tenth floor.”

And somehow, Dean understood. He kept hold of the gun, tossing the other escrima stick to Castiel as he scooped up the briefcase. The two ran, leaving as the crowd began to grow loud. Alarms began blaring as they reached the 8th floor, but thankfully nobody intercepted them as they pushed through the fire exit located on the tenth floor. A separate alarm blared as they opened it, but Castiel hoped the noise would be lost in the rest of the chaos.

The fire escape was, as it turned out, little more than a small metal ledge with a rusting ladder off the side that lead to the ground. Well. Almost. Dean surveyed that with a slight smirk. “That can’t be considered safe.”

“Who knew all this time, Roman Enterprises could have been taken down by a few fire codes?”

Dean barked a laugh. Still, both were on edge, glancing at the door with the knowledge that at any moment, armed men could burst out. “Well, Clarence,” Dean said, glancing down at the ladder again, “If I die getting off this thing, let everyone know that I only spared those guys’ lives because of you.”

And with that, he swung a leg over the edge, sliding down the ladder with skill, trench coat flapping dramatically. It was a bit of a fall from the end of the ladder to the ground, but Dean landed nimbly and Castiel followed behind him not long after. They paused for a moment, Castiel looking Dean over and vice versa. The alarms could still be faintly heard from within the building. 

“We should go,” Dean muttered, though not before taking another long look at Castiel.

Castiel hesitated for only a moment before following.

They ran down the alley in silence, Castiel processing everything that had happened. He’d never worked with a murderer before. But. Still. After watching what had happened to those women...knowing full well it would have happened to the children...a tiny part of him wondered if Dean had a point. And that thought terrified him.

What was more, Dean, a known murderer, had actually abstained from killing. For no other reason than because Castiel requested it. Which meant it wasn’t just hardened, bloodthirsty havoc, as Michael had so often described it. Dean could stop. Dean could  _ change _ . 

Unfortunately, his moral dilemma had little time to resolve, because when they reached the alleyway where the Batmobile was hidden, Castiel was horrified to discover they were not alone. There, in the alley, right in front of the car, stood Batman himself.

“Criminals, Nightwing? This is what you’ve reduced yourself to?” Batman chided, and Castiel felt a dull ache set into his heart. Castiel froze, but to his amazement, Michael froze too as Dean rounded the corner.

“ _ No _ ,” Michael breathed, searching Dean’s face as though he knew him. For a moment, the world seemed to freeze as Batman examined him. Dean, on the other hand, appeared torn between fury and sorrow and it hit Castiel that  _ Batman knew Dean _ . 

“At least Bat Boy’s getting shit done,” Dean snarled, “Saved almost twenty civilians today. Countless others in the future.” Batman drew a long breath, schooling his emotions. It wasn’t often Castiel saw him work so hard to appear withdrawn and he wasn’t sure if it was because of Dean or his own failure.

“And what was the body count in your little escapade?” he retorted, stepping forwards, his cape nearly floating behind him. He didn’t hold any weapons. He had them, of course, but Castiel knew Michael preferred his fists. 

“I’ll have you know we kept the count limited,” Dean retorted, smug.

Batman did not even bother to address Dean, instead honing his focus onto Cas. “Did you sanction this?”

“I…” Castiel’s voice caught in his throat. He tried to subtly angle himself between Michael and Dean, though it was largely ineffective.

“Nightwing. I’ve overlooked your failures before,” Michael’s voice had grown cold as he stepped closer. A small spark of fear flickered to life in Castiel’s stomach. “But agreeing to murder? That makes you everything I’m not. I expected more obedience--”

“You expected  _ blind _ obedience,” Dean growled, keeping the gun firmly trained on Batman, “Expected him to follow your stupid morality code and just  _ watch _ as innocent people died.”

“I expected him not to give way to weakness,” Batman was very close now. He wasn’t as tall as Castiel, and especially not Dean, but between the costume and the sheer presence he’d managed to build over the last decade, he was quite intimidating. “But he’s fallen.”

_ Fallen _ . The pit in Castiel’s stomach grew. He wanted to say that it wasn’t his fault. That he’d told Dean not to kill. But the fact Dean was here, walking alongside him instead of tied up and waiting for police to arrive, well, that spoke volumes. Not to mention he’d just tried to stand in between Dean and Michael… 

“Please,” he whispered, though he didn’t quite know who he was whispering it to. Michael pushed him aside, manhandling him with ease, despite the fact Castiel had a couple inches on Michael.

Dean’s eyes blazed once again with his anger. He aimed the gun at Michael. “Leave him alone.”

“Dean,” Castiel’s head whipped up and he gently grabbed Dean’s shoulder. Dean looked surprised at the touch, “Don’t.”

“ _ Dean, _ ” Batman croaked, uncharacteristically heartbroken. “It is you.”

“Actually, it’s Red Hood to you,” Dean snapped. Michael inhaled sharply.

“How?” Michael’s voice was surprisingly ragged. His stance relaxed, fists no longer clenched in preparation for a fight. Castiel stepped out of the way, feeling utterly disconnected to whatever reunion was unfolding before him.

“Guess I was just mostly dead, huh?” Even in a tense and emotional situation, Dean’s wit could not be stopped. He even grinned slightly, though it was lopsided and sad compared to the smiles he’d given Castiel the night before.

“So you came back from the dead and became a monster?” Michael growled. In tense situations, Michael had never responded well to humor. Castiel knew from experience.

The light drained from Dean’s face. All the running he’d done had loosened the gel in his hair and the pure white portions were starting to droop onto his forehead. Castiel was struck with the sense that he looked, oddly, like a teenage boy caught by his father after a night out. “I came back ready to do the things you didn’t have the balls to do,” he snarled, though there was less fight in his voice than before. A sliver of doubt: something Castiel knew very well.

“And corrupting my new  protégé , was that also part of your plan?”

Castiel did not like the direction this conversation was heading. There were two problems at hand. One, that Castiel had been consorting with criminals. Really, the whole ordeal surrounding Red Hood and Roman had been poorly planned and questionably executed. And yet. He and Dean had not only discovered a large amount about one of Roman’s shady ventures, but managed to save nearly an entire room of civilians in the process. Dean made mistakes, sure, he made decisions that Castiel disagreed with, but Castiel couldn’t deny the fact that in general...he didn’t mind working with Dean. Not only did Dean get results, he was also, well, a breath of fresh air. He made Castiel feel competent, valued.

Not to mention he was hot. As ashamed as Castiel was about such an attraction, it had to be noted that he definitely found Dean stunning.

The other problem was one Castiel knew nothing about. The strange, but significant connection between Michael and Dean.

“...lots of sex. Hot and heavy!” Dean was shouting and Castiel found he’d zoned out of the conversation, opting to stare absently at the dumpster as he mulled over a possible response to Michael’s accusation. Unfortunately, the conversation seemed to have moved on without him, and to catastrophic ends.

“How dare you insinuate that! Nightwing would never engage in intercourse with a criminal!” Batman roared. The two were in each others’ faces by this point, Dean waving the gun up and down with little regard for safety. It seemed almost more dangerous to try and break up the potential fight, but Castiel wasn’t about to see either of them get hurt.

“Stop this!” Castiel shouted, pushing between the two of them so Dean was behind him and Michael in front. “We need  _ all _ of us to take down Roman!”

Michael sneered, crossing his arms in front of his chest. It was always strange talking to Michael when he was wearing his cowl, because his eyes weren’t easily visible and it could be hard to tell how he was feeling from just the mouth. Castiel hadn’t known Michael to grow this emotional at all, he’d seen Michael coolly facing down criminals who were throwing everything they had into baiting him. “You don’t know the whole story.”

“Then tell me. You know I want little more than your approval.” Castiel was surprised to find the latter statement, while once very true, was now more lie than truth. He did want Batman’s approval, to a small extent, but after Dean he found there were more important things. Saving people, for instance, taking down Roman. Perhaps it was fine his honesty was compromised in order to do such things.

“Dean wasn’t always Red Hood,” Michael said softly, “He is, uh,  _ was _ ...my Robin.”

_ What? _ Castiel’s breath caught in his throat as he tried to comprehend it. He knew little about the first Robin. Michael had adored him and then some terrible accident had happened during the course of a raid on the Demon gang and...well...most people weren’t as lucky as Castiel had been. The first Robin had left big shoes to fill, though, that much Castiel was absolutely certain of. Largely because he’d never quite measured up.

Of course, common intuition would say that there was  _ no way _ the man behind him was the old Robin. And yet. Dean had known things about Batman’s operation that very few did. His reaction to the vintage Batmobile, his comments about Batman’s treatment of Robin. And here, now, Dean’s strangely familiar reactions. 

Dean was Robin.

Castiel expected to feel shock, but instead he was hit with a hysterical giggle at the thought of Dean fighting crime without pants. He clamped his mouth closed, suppressing the nervous laugh. Castiel was struck with the completely inappropriate urge to tease Dean about his phase of pantsless crime fighting, but he bit his tongue. Now was not the time or place.

“Emphasis on  _ was _ ,” Dean snapped bitterly, “Turns out it’s easier to find a replacement Robin than save the one you had.”

“I thought you were dead!” Michael wiped a shaking hand across his face, “I searched for  _ months  _ before--”

“-- _ bullshit _ ,” Dean waved the gun with little regard for safety as Castiel backed away. He didn’t know how to react to the situation at hand. “It only took a year before you’d found yourself a new Robin!”

“How could I have predicted you’d survive?”

Dean laughed, a loud, hollow laugh. It sent shivers up Castiel’s spine. “I didn’t. Lucifer killed me.” Both Castiel and Michael gasped. “Next thing I know, I’m waking up screaming in Alastair’s basement, subject to some painful black magic experiment.”

Castiel gaped at him. Alastair had been a lower-level Demon gone rogue. It was one of the first cases he’d worked as Robin, finding Alastair’s mutilated body. They’d concluded the Demons had hunted him down, but…

“Did you kill Alastair?” Michael asked lowly, his hand curling into a fist once again.

“Pass your judgement  _ after _ you’ve been brought back to life with black magic,” Dean snarled, lifting the gun. “He deserved worse than what I did to him.”

Michael watched him in silence, taking a shuddering breath. “Then it’s still true. My Robin is dead,” he said, stepping forwards, “And it’s my duty to put Red Hood in jail where he belongs.”

Dean winced and Castiel couldn’t blame him. All accounts pointed to Batman being like a father to the first Robin, even more than he’d been for Castiel. Castiel stepped forwards, hoping to offer comfort, when Dean unexpectedly smirked. “At least  _ I’m _ making the world a better place,” he replied smugly, swinging his other fist at Batman.

Michael dodged, but the blow still clipped his shoulder. Dean cursed, trench coat flapping as he sent a high kick careening into Michael’s arm. “You’re a murderer,” Michael retorted, “Same as any of the other villains we went after.”

“Seriously?” Dean huffed, dodging Michael’s punch as he swung his fist, groaning as it collided with the Batmobile, “Even that health nut who went around ruining kids birthday parties by exploding their cakes?”

“You’re right,” Michael leaned against the car, using the Batmobile to propel himself onto the other side of the alley. “Gluten-Freedom was  _ much _ more balanced than you!”

“Now you’re just being an asshole,” Dean swung at Michael with the hand holding the pistol. Michael caught him by the wrist. For a moment, small smiles crossed both their tense faces.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” Michael said softly.

The smile slid from Dean’s face. “I do.”

“Then I have to do this,” Michael replied, and from the corner of Cas’ eye, he caught sight of Michael pulling a needle from his utility belt. A paralytic, Castiel knew from experience, one that could really only be used at close range. Dean seemed to notice too, as he cocked his gun. Either way, the face-off would end badly and Castiel, though he did not know what he wanted, knew that he could not let it happen.

“Stop!” Castiel shouted, pushing between them again. He caught Michael’s wrist and pushed a firm hand against Dean’s chest. 

“Nightwing,” Michael said, his voice tense, “Is your loyalty wavering?”

Was it? Castiel wasn’t sure anymore. He did want to be appreciated by Michael, of course, wanted to be taken seriously, but Michael rarely trusted Castiel and it had started to take its toll. Then again. Michael had access to a very extensive arsenal.

“...we could use him,” Castiel said after a moment of hesitation. There were other, far more personal responses he could use, but when it came to convincing Michael to change his mind, Castiel found it best to be cool and analytical. “He has intel on Roman--”

“I’m not losing another one to the slippery slope of immorality! Every villain believes himself a hero, Castiel, and this is how it starts! Justifying evil actions for the good of the many.”

“Do you really think  _ he’ll _ stop Roman?” Dean retorted acidly. Michael twisted out of Castiel’s grip, but Dean kept his chest firmly against Castiel’s hand. Castiel could feel his heart pounding beneath his fingertips.

“I...He…”

Castiel wavered, unsure how to respond. Michael swung downwards with the needle. Dean sprang into action, colliding into the brick wall of the alley as he scrambled away from Michael. In that moment, the decision clicked into place for Castiel. “Stop!” he begged, grabbing both Michael’s wrists. 

Michael dropped the needle, curling his fists into Castiel’s shirt. “Castiel,” he whispered, “It’s him, or it’s me. You have to choose.”

“I…” Again, Castiel’s voice caught in his throat. Two days ago, Castiel would have pledged his allegiance to Batman on bended knee. But Dean, among his many accomplishments, had caused Castiel to seriously do something he’d been avoiding for years. Doubted Batman. 

He still spent a moment in thought, weighing the options and trying to craft a logical response. Dean had done bad things, yes, but he’d done them with good intentions. Perhaps, with the right influence, he could be convinced to change his methods all together. Castiel tugged out of Michael’s grasp with surprising ease, setting his jaw as he looked at Michael with renewed confidence.

“It’s Dean.”

Michael’s mouth was pressed into a hard line. “Very well. Consider this our last meeting. Any of your resources that I provided will be collected, starting with your mask.” 

Castiel hesitated. The mask, more than any of his other resources, was what made him Nightwing. It protected his identity, it allowed everyone to know his heroic intent, it  _ defined _ him. But if he kept the mask now, would that mean upholding values he was no longer sure he believed in. Dean truly had changed everything. Hands shaking, he released Batman and slowly removed his mask. Castiel couldn’t even make eye contact with Michael as he handed it over.

Michael snatched it out of his hands, then leaned in again, his breath warming Castiel’s ear as he added, “You’re a fool for making this decision. He  _ will _ abandon you.”

Castiel remained speechless as Michael let him go, sliding into the still invisible Batmobile. He slammed the door with surprising force, the car shimmering into view once again. The engine roared to life and Castiel had to slide up against the old brick wall to avoid it driving away. As Michael roared out, Castiel let out a shaky breath.

“That was...unexpected,” Castiel said, offering a smile to Dean as he turned around at last. But to his horror, the alleyway was empty. Foolishly, Castiel hoped for it to be some sort of joke, a prank he did not understand, but deep down, he knew the truth. 

Dean was gone too.


	8. Do I Look Like a Damn Songbird

Castiel wasn’t sure what he hated more. The fact he was alone, the fact Batman had  _ already _ been proven right, or the fact the bus he was waiting for was now eleven minutes late. Seriously, after the exhausting day he’d had, there was no reason he should have to wait so long for the bus to arrive. It was already embarrassing enough to have to cobble together the spare change necessary for a ticket.

By the time he’d stumbled across the threshold of his doorstep, he was depressed and ravenous. Unfortunately, he still had several things to do. Ignoring the gaping hole in what used to be his bathroom door, Castiel made his way to his bedroom, checking the hidden compartment in his closet to find all his supplies, save for his suit, had already been taken. Batman worked fast, apparently.

“Must be miserable dealing with him during a breakup,” Castiel muttered to himself, double checking a few of the other locations he’d stashed Bat gadgets. They were all gone.

To add insult to injury, the coffee maker was gone from the kitchen. Castiel grumbled curses as he raided his pathetic excuse for a pantry, grabbing a dense but nutritious energy bar. It wasn’t ideal but at least it would sate his growling stomach. If only he’d gone grocery shopping earlier in the week, his supply might not be so dismal. Alas. Castiel didn’t even want to look at his bank balance at this point.

The situation was looking rather grim.

What was most frustrating, though, was the fact Roman was still free, with access to the drugs no less. Before Dean, Castiel would have banked on Roman’s more extreme experimentations catching the public eye. But between the corrupt legal system and the mellowing drugs Roman had already seemed to roll out, a lawsuit, if it even materialized, would barely slow Roman down.

Doubt. There it was again. It had been on the outskirts of his mind for years, but Castiel had never acted on it before. He’d always pushed the doubt away, replacing it with faith in Batman’s moral compass and the legal system. Now, however, he was making his doubts concrete, all thanks to Dean.

Then again, Dean had abandoned him.

In a rush of anger, Castiel tugged Dean’s leather jacket off his shoulders, throwing it to the floor with a loud cry. To his horror, he looked up to find Dean’s Red Hood mask resting prominently in the hammock. Michael had taken everything, but left that as a warning.  _ Look what you’re becoming _ .

And, also,  _ look who left _ .

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. He snatched up the leather jacket, throwing it over the hood. At least this way, he wouldn’t have to look at it. Swallowing a tired cry, Castiel examined his crude handiwork for a moment, desperately wishing he could be anywhere but here.

Such fantasies were pointless. There was too much to deal with after such an eventful day. He bit into the bland energy bar, wandering the apartment to assess what could be turned into an asset. Roman had to be taken down, and with Batman dragging his feet and Dean gone with the wind, it was up to Castiel.

Unfortunately, his prospects were about as good as his meal: not great. There was a burner phone. A few replacement parts for his escrima stick which he  _ might _ be able to MacGyver into his non-electrified stick. Half a bottle of the expensive wine Dean brought (not strictly speaking an asset in battle, but not a bad thing to have on hand). Some kitchen knives of varying sizes. And, to his surprise, stashed behind a copy of  _ Robin Hood _ : another gun that presumably belonged to Dean.

Castiel’s hand hovered over the handle as he deliberated. Guns were so violent. Their actions so final and usually deadly. It went against everything Castiel knew, everything he’d been taught. Then again. Castiel needed every advantage he could get…

...Which reminded him of someone he might be able to turn to after all. Taking a large gulp of wine straight out of the bottle, Castiel punched one of the few numbers he knew from memory into the burner phone. It rang for three beats, then.

“Hello?” Meg’s voice was curt.

He wondered briefly if this was a bad idea. After all, pairing with Dean had lead to some rather unfortunate results and at least Dean advertised himself as trying to be on the side of justice. That said, Castiel had little left to lose. “Hey, Meg,” Castiel replied gravely after a long pause.

“Clarence!” Meg’s voice immediately brightened. “Already checking in about that favor, huh? Well, while I appreciate the initiative, I--”

“Meg, I need your help,” Castiel interrupted. After what he’d seen, what had happened to the women in that experimentation room, it hardly seemed like there was time to waste. The sooner he could find a lead, any lead, the better. 

“Didn’t you already  _ get _ my help?” Meg sighed, “Hooked you up with that firmly toned vigilante, if I recall correctly.”

“This is different,” Castiel paced the room. Odd that he had this much energy. The situation was draining; it was only a matter of time before he crashed. “This is something you’re likely invested in.”

“Darling, you know I don’t make investments. I prefer to sleep naked on all the cash I’ve acquired.”

“Meg.”

“You’re welcome to join me there. On my bed of money. Naked.”

“ _ Meg! _ ” Castiel snapped, scandalized. Meg’s laughter rang out over the phone and for a moment all Castiel could think of was Dean, laughing aloud as he made a similar sort of joke. How was it that such a  man could make such an impression in so short a span of time? It was unheard of. And yet. All of Castiel’s other problems had faded to the outskirts of his mind when he was with Dean.

“Roman Enterprises,” Castiel cut through her laughter in an attempt to stop thinking about Dean, “Any interactions with them?”

“Shit, Clarence,” Meg whistled lowly, “you keeping jumping into the big stuff and people are gonna think you’ve gotta death wish.”

“So you’ve got a contact?”

Meg scoffed. “Are you kidding? Even Lucifer is at odds with them.”

Castiel frowned, setting the phone to speaker as he began to tinker with the non-electric escrima stick. As long as other groups caused more damage to the general public than Lucifer’s gang, he’d usually leave them alone. “Really?”

“Mr. Hot Ass Crime Fighter isn’t the only one giving the Demons trouble these days,” Meg snapped. Castiel paused in his tinkering. She made a good point; as skilled as Dean was, he’d been able to cause a  _ lot _ of damage for one man. Meg continued in Cas’ silence, “It wasn’t long after he started causing trouble that Roman’s men joined the fray.”

Castiel bit his lip. Was it coincidence that Dean had gotten his start around the same time Roman’s attacks grew bolder? “Do you think he--”

“Nah,” Meg brushed his fears off, “Hot Ass?  _ Way _ too flashy and anarchist.”

“So why go after him?” Castiel felt strangely defensive of Dean, even now, “Surely Roman’s attacks were more pressing.”

“I dunno. We needed a win? A lone vigilante is a much easier target than a corrupt multimillion dollar corporation. It’s the difference between killing a wolf and killing a hydra.”

Castiel bit his lip as his fingers slipped on the device, a small jolt of electricity snapping into his thumb. He knew they’d been hunting for Dean, after all, he had too, but somehow it was even more worrisome knowing that  _ now _ , with Dean gone. He rubbed his thumb as Meg continued.

“Anyway, setting your bizarre vigilante man-crush aside, Roman’s been giving us hell.”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Castiel couldn’t help but snort.

“You think that’s funny?” Meg snapped.

“A funny choice of words for a gang that calls themselves  _ The Demons _ ,” Castiel retorted, resuming his tinkering, albeit with more care than before. With so few supplies and funds, he really needed to make every resource count.

“Well, the point still stands,” Meg huffed. Castiel could practically see her setting her hand on her hip in indignation as she talked, her nails surprisingly manicured. Meg was funny that way, always looking surprisingly put-together for a criminal ready to break into a fist fight at any given moment. “Roman Enterprises isn’t your everyday crime organization. You don’t take them on unless you have a death wish.”

“You’re not going to help me?” Castiel felt his heart sink. He couldn’t begrudge Meg her decision, of course. Roman Enterprises was a dangerous organization, certainly enough so to frighten even Meg, and Castiel didn’t want her to get hurt. 

“Didn’t say that, angel,” Meg drawled, “I might not have a death wish, but  _ you _ do. And if you’d like to try getting the looming threat off my back, well, who am I to stand in your way?”

Castiel wrapped the wires firmly around the stick, carefully trying to fit the trigger to the taser near the grip of the escrima stick. He toggled it delicately to avoid getting shocked again and found, to his delight, that it crackled to life. Not the best escrima stick, but certainly better than nothing. “You know where Roman is?”

“Slow down, kangaroo. You keep jumping to conclusions,” Meg sounded smug and Cas absolutely knew she’d prepared that insult ahead of time, “Roman’s a slippery bastard to track, so that’s out, but I do know a location where his high-end lackeys meet…”

 

\---

 

It was nearly 24 hours later before Meg gave Castiel the necessary location. She’d always seemed to have a sort of sixth sense about Castiel’s health and it hadn’t diminished much over the phone. She’d made him go to bed. Insisted he couldn’t make the best decisions without sleep. Argued that she needed Castiel in top condition if he was serious about toppling Roman Enterprises, but Castiel suspected she’d also grown soft.

Between Meg and Dean, Castiel had no idea what to think about his past preconceived notions.

So he’d slept. Fitfully, to be sure, but it was still rest. And he’d eaten. Two energy bars and a hardboiled egg. He’d even prepared his equipment, however lacking, which included the two escrima sticks, a tracking device, three flash grenades and a particularly long kitchen knife. And the gun. Dean’s gun. Castiel argued he’d bring it on the off chance he ran into Dean, but truthfully he knew he was already lacking in resources. Anything would help.

Even if he didn’t have any intention of firing it.

He’d reported all of the above to Meg, who was practically interrogating him before she revealed the location. To his surprise, it was a park just south of his apartment building. “I expected something different,” he said to Meg as he packed his stuff into a small bag, zipping up his superhero suit and donning an old grey hoodie to help cover his face given the lack of a mask. “An abandoned warehouse, maybe.”

“Clarence, darling,” he could practically see Meg rolling her eyes, “If every criminal met in an abandoned warehouse, we’d run out of places to meet.”

“Right,” Cas muttered, wondering not for the first time if spending his limited savings on an earpiece to talk to Meg was the best use of his funds. “It’s much better to meet out in the open where children play.”

“Don’t knock it till you try it! The fake baby routine can get you pretty much anywhere.”

Castiel didn’t respond as he left the apartment, opting to let Meg prattle on about one particular heist she’d pulled that involved robbing a rich apartment complex by masquerading as a clueless nanny. Once outside, he headed south, anticipating that Meg would stop her anecdote to guide him in the correct direction. Sure enough, after finishing her story, which somehow ended with her sleeping with one of the rich men and stealing his socks before making a grandiose escape, Meg’s focus returned to Cas.

“Gonna wanna take a left on Oak Street.”

He picked up his pace, curving around the wide sidewalk. It felt odd, heading towards a fight in a neighborhood that could really only be described as idyllic. Castiel was on the outskirts, but the park itself, and the neighborhood surrounding it, clearly came from money. Huge trees lined the path and expensive cars gleamed from along the sidewalk. It might not have felt like home, but it did feel calm. Peaceful.

“While you’re at it,” Meg added, sending the calm mood racing, “Why don’t you explain what happened to you and Hot Ass?”

“I told you, Meg,” Castiel replied, gritting his teeth, “He got away.”

“And I told  _ you _ that it’s unbecoming of an angel to spew bullshit.”

“Why do  _ you _ care?” Castiel snapped.

“Right on Charleston Drive.” Castiel compiled, picking up the pace, “And I  _ don’t _ care,” Meg added, “But you’ve been acting different since you took him in.”

The trees and houses seemed to loom even larger as he continued down his path. Was he really that different since meeting Dean? Castiel didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to consider just how far he’d fallen off the righteous pedestal he’d stood atop when he was more fully aligned to Batman. He picked up into a run, his backpack thumping against his back as he ran. It had only just occurred to him how suspicious a man in a hoodie might look in a neighborhood like this.

“I mean,” Meg added in the wake of his heavy breathing, “You’re asking  _ me _ for help. Actual, substantial help. I thought I was scum to you.”

Castiel kept jogging, mulling over the situation. His relationship with Meg had always been...different. Sure, he thought the Demons were scum, but Meg was...was….well, he wasn’t sure  _ what _ Meg was, or why she was a priority in his life. She’d saved his life, sure, but that hadn’t stopped Batman from arresting criminals who’d saved him. 

“You’re not,” he finished finally as he rounded the corner, reaching the park at last, “Scum.”

“Aw, Clarence, that got me all warm and fuzzy in my nethers,” Meg crooned as Castiel scanned the park. It was strangely quiet, the din of the city muffled. There wasn’t much to it, a thick row of trees surrounded a small green area, a children’s play structure and a couple well-maintained picnic tables. At first glance, it appeared completely empty.

Castiel tugged the hood further over his face and slid an escrima stick into his hand. He walked slowly past the cover of the trees and into the center of the park, towards the tables. Meg had grown quiet, leaving only the crackle of static buzzing in his ear as he kept an eye out for Meg’s supposed informants.

He made his way to the playground, even checking inside the plastic slide before making his way back to the trees. The trunks were long, too difficult to climb without a grappling hook, but wide enough to hide behind. “Where are they?” Castiel hissed, alternating between checking the interior of the park and the exterior.

“Hell if I know,” Meg retorted. Her voice was strained. She was worried too. True, it could be misinformation, but the air seemed taut. The neighborhood, in retrospect, had been oddly quiet. The hairs on the back of Castiel’s neck were raised; instinctively he knew something was going to happen, he just wasn’t sure what. “Lemme see if I can--”

But whatever Meg was about to say got cut off by a sharp  _ hisss _ of a taser. Castiel leapt out of the way, stumbling on a tree root as he caught sight of a man in a nice suit, holding the weapon. As Castiel stumbled into the interior of the park, more men in suits walked out from all sides. Where they’d come from, he had no idea, there had to be maybe a dozen of them.

With a flick of his wrist, he brought out his second escrima stick, turning them both on. At least two of the men in suits had knives, a few more had clubs, and the rest, aside from the one with the taser, carried briefcases. Great. Nothing made an exciting fight like mystery weapons.

“Clarence?” Meg said, enough worry evident in her voice that Castiel doubted she’d set him up.

“Gonna have to put you on hold.”

The men surrounded Castiel, staring at him with an eerie calm, weapons held casually. For a moment, the world seemed to freeze, then Castiel lunged at one of the men with clubs. He moved faster than the man, sending a jolt of electricity into his hand. The man cried out, dropping his club and trying lamely to kick Cas.

Another burst of electricity and the man was down.

“Y’know,” Castiel said as the other men from Roman Enterprises leapt into action, “We could try mixing things up. You give me information, I don’t send most of your men home with broken appendages, that sort of thing.”

A blow from behind caught him by surprise. Castiel gritted his teeth, whirling around to kick the club out of another man’s hand. “So, you want it the painful way, huh?”

“Clarence,” Meg’s voice fizzed into his ear, “Maybe you should get outta there.”

Maybe. But that alone would take effort. Might as well try to get information while he was at it.

Three of the men went down as easily as the first, but in doing so, Castiel managed to take a few hits of his own. His arm felt popped out of place and his nose bled as the remaining eight continued to send blows. One particularly bad hit with a knife tore a hole in his suit and carved a long slice into his bicep. Castiel cried out, losing his momentum. Another hit sent him crumpling to the ground.

It occurred to Cas that things might not be going his way as one of the men kicked him in the head.

He stumbled back to his feet, but the sheer volume of men to fight was overwhelming and his head grew dizzy.

“Clarence,” Meg’s voice was garbled, the earpiece had been damaged in the fight, but desperate, “I swear, if you die here I’m gonna kill you.”

Castiel was swaying on his feet and down an escrima stick, the homemade taser had been dropped after his finger, but still he tried to take down another one of Roman’s goons. It ended with a knee to his stomach. He was off his game. And this time, it might actually cost him.

As he blinked back the impending darkness, however, he heard another familiar voice.

“Yo, Matrix clones!” 

Could it be...could that voice really be who he thought it was? Castiel pushed back up to his feet, Roman’s men turning around to try to find the source of the voice. There was a blast of a gun and one of Roman’s men fell to the ground. Another shot sent a second man stumbling down, clutching his leg. A third gunshot rang out and the men began to run.

Out of the trees leapt Dean, wearing his Red Hood outfit, sans leather jacket and helmet. The red bat symbol was emblazoned boldly on his chest and he wore his matching Bat-mask. He held pistols in both hands, landing on his feet with agility. 

“I wouldn’t touch my friend if I was you,” he growled, cocking both his weapons. Those left standing took off at a run, leaving only the unconscious men and the two goons Dean had wounded. Dean glanced at Castiel, though it was hard to see his expression through the mask, then made his way to the man clutching his leg.

“Now, my friend here might be against the whole killing thing,” Dean said with a smirk, “But he’s not doing too hot right now. So if I were you, I’d think hard and fast about what I’d say next.”

Unfortunately for Castiel, that was about the time he found himself slipping into unconsciousness at last.


	9. Damn, You're Such A--

Castiel groaned as he opened his eyes. He had a splitting headache and no less than seven body parts ached and burned. Of all the stupid ideas he’d had, this one was one of the worst. For a moment, everything was blurry, but as it all came into focus, the first thing he saw was Dean’s face near inches from his own.

“What--” Castiel cried out, extremely confused as he tried, nonetheless, to scramble away.

Dean threw back his head and laughed. “Ain’t so fun when it happens to you, is it?”

Ah. Right. Castiel opened and closed his mouth, failing to come up with a retort. Or, for that matter, a question. Which he had more and more of, the more he got his bearings.

He seemed to be in a garage, or a shed. Something small, anyway, with various power tools and gardening products stashed away on shelves and in boxes with odd labels like “sustenance” and “metal” and “Moondor.” Wait. He’d heard that last one before…

A door opened on the other side of the garage and, to Castiel’s surprise, in walked the red-headed woman from the lab, the one who’d helped them. She wore a graphic t-shirt with another indecipherable quote, though, unfortunately, no name tag this time. Unsure what to say, Castiel looked from her to Dean with bewilderment.

“It’s okay, Charlie’s on our side,” Dean explained, gently helping Castiel up to a sitting position. He had been stretched out on a cot, his wounds treated on a rudimentary level. 

With so many questions building, Castiel asked the one that had been on his mind longest. “Why did you leave in the first place?” he snapped, sending a weak fist into Dean’s shoulder. It barely made contact and Dean made an odd, vaguely terrified giggle. “Dean,” Castiel growled, his voice extra gravely from the pain of his injuries and the smile slipped quickly from Dean’s face.

“I dunno,” he muttered, looking away, “You looked like you were gonna side with him--”

“--so you didn’t wait to find out,” Cas groaned, resting his aching head in his hands. “Well. For the record. I didn’t side with him. And it cost me everything.”

An awkward silence fell over the room, Castiel taking short, measured breaths and wondering if he’d be able to track down enough painkillers to force his body into pretending it was in fighting shape. He’d had much worse injuries, of course, but usually he was allowed to take time off and rest. Here, in some dingy shed, now very much known by Roman Enterprises and lacking in any real weaponry, well, time off seemed to be the last thing he’d be able to find.

“If it helps,” Charlie said finally, “He had me track you down.”

Of course Dean did. Because this whole debacle wasn’t bad enough without knowing he could be tracked by the criminal underworld. Cas looked up, glaring at Dean in what he hoped was an intimidating expression. It was hard to tell, his ‘intimidation look,’ even when practiced in the mirror, was hit or miss.

What was gnawing at him more and more was the realization that Dean abandoned him. Dean, the very person who’d lied about his identity from the beginning, broken into Castiel’s apartment and even murdered people in cold blood, Dean didn’t trust  _ Castiel. _ Which, as far as Castiel was concerned, was absolutely ridiculous.

“I regretted it,” Dean admitted, shrugging his shoulders in a way that made him look much smaller, “Abandoning you. And I...just had to make sure, y’know? That you were doing okay.”

“My hero,” Cas retorted dryly. 

“Hey,” Dean snapped, pushing to standing to pace the cluttered length of the small room, “You can’t complain. You’d be dead without me.”

It was true, but Castiel didn’t want to consider that fact. 

“Would I,  _ Robin? _ ” Castiel hissed, as he kept his blue eyes trained on Dean.

Charlie gasped. Dean stopped dead in his tracks. It was below the belt and utterly uncalled for after Dean saved his life, but Castiel found he didn’t care. Dean’s shoulders tensed. He took a few deep breaths before turning to face Castiel. “You, of all people,” Dean growled lowly, though he made no attempt to move closer to Cas, “Should respect the decision to adopt a new identity.”

Castiel could feel Charlie’s eyes trained on the both of them. There were plenty of questions about her involvement, of course, like how Dean had found her and  _ why _ he’d dragged her into such a dangerous business, but there were also bigger things to deal with. Bigger things that seemed to take a back seat with Dean gazing down at Castiel. His heart pounded as they made eye contact, but for what reason, Castiel couldn’t quite say. He was filled with the strange, conflicting desire to keep pushing and to also wrap his arms around Dean and never let go.

“Okay, listen here,” Meg’s voice crackled over the computer Charlie was holding, causing them all to look up in surprise, “I don’t know who you are or  _ how _ you managed to find this number, but I swear if you hurt Clarence I will  _ murder _ you.”

Castiel could only stare in dumbfounded silence.

“She was still in contact over your earpiece,” Charlie shrugged apologetically, “I thought it best to track the number down, and I’ve got a pretty useful program for this sort of--”

“I’m serious,” Meg continued, “I’ve boiled a man alive. I’ve pierced vital organs with ninja stars from twenty paces away. One time, I--”

“She’s been doing this on and off for the last hour,” Charlie added.

Huh. It was both heartening and vaguely terrifying that Meg could, and chose, to do that. He had no doubt that, given enough lengthy silence, Meg might actually find a way to track them down. An appealing thought, to be sure, Meg taking on Dean, but Charlie didn’t deserve to be caught in the crossfire. 

“Meg?” Castiel’s voice was still rough and it didn’t quite carry far enough. Charlie came closer with the computer and he tried again. “Meg? I’m alive.”

Meg stopped listing her murder count. There was a loud exhale on the other end of the computer. “Thank heavens.”

“I think you mean thank hell,” Castiel replied wryly.

“So, you wanna explain why you threw yourself into a bloodbath with a  _ Demon _ as backup?” Dean’s voice took on a scolding tone and he even folded his arms in dismay.

“Hot Ass? Is that you?” Meg’s voice crackled over the computer, “Clarence, I thought you lost him!”

Between the ache in Castiel’s skull from the fight, the strange basement, Meg and the others, Castiel couldn’t seem to keep up with everything going on. He groaned and set his head in his hands again. It felt like all eyes in the room were trained on him.

“Uh, Clarence needs to rest,” Charlie interrupted, “Gotta go!” She ignored Meg’s retorts and silence fell over the room as she closed the laptop with a  _ click _ . Now Castiel was sure that all eyes were on him.

“And I’ve got to check up on a couple things,” Charlie added awkwardly, “So. Um. Text me if you need snacks or something.” Castiel could hear her footsteps growing quieter; the door creaked and then she was gone. Dean sat on the cot next to him, Castiel could feel the fabric sink slightly. Still, he wasn’t ready to look at him.

With Charlie gone, Castiel could sense the mood shift in the room.

“I’m sorry I left, y’know,” Dean muttered gruffly, “I know you don’t...you won’t...uh, but I am. Sorry. People don’t stand by me. And someone like you, someone so... _ pure _ , I just thought there was  _ no way _ .”

Castiel never considered this. He supposed he was seen as pure. Meg made even fun of it from time to time. But since he never managed to reach the levels of success that Michael had, well, he’d assumed he was broken. Something had to be wrong, after all. For a moment, he felt a twinge of pity for Dean, but it was replaced by anger.

“You know,” he growled slowly, lifting his head to look at Dean, “You’re not the only one who feels broken.”

“Bat Boy…”

“ _ No, _ ” Castiel snarled, “Do you know how often I’ve stood up to him?”

“A...lot?” Dean laughed shakily.

“Not once!” Castiel slammed his fist into Dean’s shoulder, biting his lip as pain spasmed up his arm. Dean looked sympathetic, trying to tend to Castiel’s injury, but Castiel pulled away. “And I do this, I did  _ all _ of this,” he gestured around the room wildly, “For you! And you abandon me because you don’t feel  _ pure _ ?”

“Oh, don’t put this on me!” Dean snapped, “You’re the one who kept wavering between me and him. You’d lick his bootstraps if he asked you to!”

“And if you were still Robin, you wouldn’t?” 

Dean’s mouth snapped shut, jaw muscle tensing. He pushed to standing, fists curled. Castiel cringed, bracing himself for a punch, but Dean didn’t move. Just stood, glaring down at him, hurt spread across his face. Castiel felt a twinge of guilt.

“You have  _ no right _ ,” Dean hissed, hands trembling, “You stupid, sycophantic, second-hand Robin!”

Getting punched would have hurt less, though Castiel felt the air rush from his lungs regardless. The guilt he felt was washed away by something much worse: sorrow. Castiel tried to will back the fury he’d felt only moments before; it would be easier. But Dean, well, Dean saw right through him. Castiel’s shoulders slumped and he looked away from Dean’s fury. 

“You’re right,” he admitted softly, “I am.”

“You’re... _ what? _ ” 

Castiel stared at Dean’s hands, which slowly started to unclench. “You don’t think I’ve always known? Michael was  _ devastated _ after losing you. I was...well,” he chuckled darkly, “The cheap knock-off.” He looked down to his own hands, bruised and bloodied, “Didn’t matter how hard I trained or how exactly I followed his orders...I was always missing something.”

He looked up at Dean at last. “I wasn’t  _ you _ .”

Dean opened and closed his mouth, hands hanging uselessly by his side. Castiel smiled wryly as his heart tightened in sorrow, “Not that it matters now.”

“I didn’t...Michael never…”

Castiel laughed bitterly. “No worries. I can tell you all the things you did better than me.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispered, kneeling at Castiel’s side, “I shouldn’t have put you through that. I shoulda stood by you. I know how it feels to be abandoned. How it feels like you’re…” he paused, looking sadly into Cas’ eyes, “...worthless.”

Perhaps it was the bruises and cuts still healing on Dean’s face, or his wildly disheveled hair, or the fact he looked smaller without a jacket on, but in that moment, Castiel could see a glimpse of how Dean must view himself. It was odd, really, when Castiel thought about it. For all their differences, he and Dean were more similar than not.

If nothing else, because they had both been dismissed by Batman.  

Dean had survived hell, but come out a different person. One who didn’t fit so easily into Batman’s strict prescription of morality. Castiel didn’t even know how he’d reconcile Batman’s strict teachings after choosing to work with Dean, much less deciding to kill someone. Batman had a funny way of making anyone who didn’t reach his near impossible standards seem unworthy.

But even in the short time Castiel had known him, Dean was nothing short of incredible. He helped those weaker than him. His heart was in the right place, even if his methods were questionable. And, unlike everyone else in Castiel’s life, he actually  _ listened _ to Castiel.

“I think…” Castiel added slowly, marvelling once again in how lovely Dean’s eyes were, “...you are a good man.” He meant it as the highest of praise, although the simplicity of the statement didn’t exactly yield itself to as bold a declaration as he intended.

“High praise from a broken man,” Dean snorted, shaking his head.

“Then I suppose we’ll have to be broken together,” Castiel replied softly, pressing his forehead to Dean’s in an unexpected gesture of forgiveness. Dean leaned into the touch and they sat in silence, pressed together, Dean’s warmth seeping into Cas’ skin. It was nice. And oddly familiar.

Castiel wouldn’t mind if they stayed like this for a while.

“...does this mean you’ll tell me your name?” Dean interrupted, their foreheads still pressed together.

“No.” A secret identity was a precious thing; real names were an expensive currency. And while it was true that Castiel trusted Dean for reasons he couldn’t always explain, the fact remained that Dean did abandon him. So he was justified in prolonging the mystery.

“If you don’t tell me, I’ll just have to call you Clementine,” Dean’s chuckle was warm and rich as he traced his fingers across Castiel’s knuckles for a moment before pulling away. Castiel sent a half-hearted punch in Dean’s direction, making Dean laugh harder. Castiel cracked a grin.

Somehow, with Dean close by, all the questions Castiel had slowly began to trickle away. It didn’t seem to matter how Dean had found him, or why, but knowing Dean had his back, and Charlie and Meg, too, for that matter...that simple support meant more to Castiel than Michael’s ever had.

Michael’s stilted praise had always overshadowed the resources he provided.

Unfortunately, they could use some of those gadgets now. Castiel personally relied on his grappling hooks to amplify his feats of acrobatics, and everything, from tracking bots to smoke bombs, had a useful purpose in a fight. Scanning the small room, which Castiel was starting to believe was a garage, Castiel started to take note of their potential resources.

Some things didn’t seem particularly useful in a fight, like a croquet set and a spare tire. There was a large toolkit on a table towards the back wall, near which sat Castiel’s escrima sticks. That was a relief, at least. Losing those, or, at least losing his working one, felt a bit like losing a limb. A box of bullets sat on a shelf, which was slightly unfortunate but not surprising. A couple cheap ropes sat coiled on a top shelf, gardening tools lined the shelf below. There were also a few unopened cabinets and...wait, was that a sword?

Castiel stared at the box labeled “Moondor,” out of which a long sword extended. Well. That was an unexpected resource. Of all the weapons to find in an average garage, a sword wasn’t his first thought.

Then again, ever since getting wrapped up with Dean, nothing Castiel did seemed to follow a traditional school of thought.

“Anyway, Clementine, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Dean interrupted, taking Castiel’s hand in his own. He left the cot, bending on one knee in a gesture absurdly similar to a proposal that Castiel couldn’t help grinning. “Would you make me the happiest man in the world...and join my team to take down Roman?”

Castiel rolled his eyes, though he still responded with, “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes,” in a purposely deadpan tone. Dean threw back his head and laughed, pushing to standing. He wandered over to one of the cabinets, searching through it for a moment before returning with none other than Castiel’s Bat-mask.

“I, uh, thought we could be matching,” Dean said, handing the mask to Castiel, “I’ve got my own, after all…”

A rush of joy filled Castiel. He couldn’t quite figure out why only now, wearing a mask he might not even be authorized to wear, it finally felt like he was part of something. Not that he hadn’t felt a dulled sense of unity when wearing the mask with Michael, but that felt more like walking in someone else's’ footsteps. Only now did he feel like he truly made the mask, and his heroic duties, his own.

“Woah. Slow down, Bat Boy. We’re not doing a repeat of yesterday,” Dean put both hands on Castiel’s shoulders to keep him from standing up. Castiel obliged...mostly because he didn’t mind Dean’s touch to begin with. “Between the intel we got yesterday and Charlie’s bad ass hacking skills, it can’t take long now,” he added in an attempt to reassure Castiel.

As much as Castiel hated waiting, Dean had a point. He sighed, inspecting his injuries a little more closely. Thankfully, nothing appeared to be broken, although almost every part of his body felt sore. There had to be bruises everywhere. The biggest injury seemed to be the gash in his left arm, which was bandaged surprisingly well. 

It wouldn’t be the best conditions to fight in, but he’d definitely managed worse injuries. Escaping from Lucifer, for instance. He’d done that with his back flayed and his body weak from starvation. Castiel shivered at the thought, trying, not for the first time, to recenter himself. As he glanced at Dean,  _ Robin _ , Castiel realized that however bad he’d had it, Dean had been tortured worse.

Perhaps escaping Hell with a penchant for guns wasn’t the worst thing to have happened to Dean. He could have become a monster, could have sided with Lucifer...but instead he was the kind of man who gave little girls knives so they could feel like they could protect themselves. Not the best idea, but his heart, however battered, was still in the right place.

There was a knock at the door. Charlie opened it, walking in with a plate of grilled cheese sandwiches. “Thought you guys might be hungry,” she said, handing the plate to Castiel, “Although you know you  _ could _ eat these inside…”

“And I already told you,” Dean replied, “We’re both wanted by Roman Enterprises.  _ You _ aren’t.”

“They’re already suspicious,” Charlie shrugged. Castiel took a sandwich, biting into it. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he’d eaten warm food and in that moment, nothing could have been better than the crispy bread and gooey cheesy goodness. 

“They  _ wouldn’t  _ be if you made it clear you locked down the doors because you were scared,” Dean grumbled, snatching a sandwich off the plate. From the looks of it, Charlie had made four, enough for them to each have two. How thoughtful. Castiel ate quickly, opting to avoid the debate.

“Quit getting a hero complex, pretty boy,” Charlie snapped, both hands on her hips, “I was already under suspicion before you and Blue Eyes entered on stage right.”

Dean looked as though he wanted to reply, but his mouth was crammed full of grilled cheese. He sent Charlie his most intimidating glare. Unfortunately, the anger was undermined slightly by the fact his cheeks were stuffed, chipmunk-eque, with sandwich. Charlie stifled a giggle. Castiel couldn’t help but grin.

“It’s not funny,” Dean muttered after swallowing, “You don’t know what you’re getting into.” Castiel felt his heart warm at the response. Yet more proof that Dean wasn’t as bad as he built himself up to be.

“Massive corrupt corporation, developing a drug that turns people into rabid monsters before killing them 20 minutes later?” Charlie retorted.

“Okay, maybe you’ve got  _ some _ idea,” Dean grumbled, grabbing another sandwich from the plate.

“I’m just saying,” Charlie took the empty plate from Castiel, “You guys could set up shop inside my house. I have to go underground anyway.”

“Have you ever gone underground before?” Castiel asked hesitantly. He had slowed down with his eating, taking smaller bites with the second sandwich, though he was aware now more than ever how hungry he was.

“You really think my name is Charlie?” 

Dean’s mouth dropped open as he gaped at her. 

“You might be the sort of person I’d have to track down in my Batman days,” Castiel mused aloud, equally stunned.

“Dude. Your Batman days were like. Two days ago,” Dean punched Castiel’s shoulder lightly with one hand as he took a bite of sandwich, then added, “ _ I’m _ just surprised we didn’t work together before!” Dean extended his other hand, which Charlie shook.  

“Point is,” Charlie said, “You idiots can stop camping out in my garage while we figure out your game plan.”

Dean exchanged a look with Castiel, who shrugged. To his surprise, Dean finished off his sandwich and gently helped Castiel up, his fingertips slightly greasy from the sandwich as he held Castiel’s hand. Castiel couldn’t help but feel Charlie’s eyes on them as Dean lead Cas off the cot and into Charlie’s home.

The home wasn’t particularly big, nor was it particularly clean, but at the same time, it felt cozy. Posters for things Castiel had only heard of in passing plastered the living room wall. There was a soft green futon, as well as a well-used beanbag chair in the middle of the floor. 

The kitchen was fairly bare, just a few mugs left out with references Castiel didn’t quite understand, and the pan Charlie must have used for the grilled cheese. 

“It’s not much,” Charlie shrugged, “But more than I’m used to. Roman Enterprises paid well.”

“Dude, this is awesome!” Dean seemed enamoured by the pop culture references and the two of them wandered the house together, discussing various pieces she owned. Castiel zoned their conversations out for a while, until he heard: “Did you know Constantine here hasn’t even seen  _ Star Wars _ ?”

“Oh. My. Gosh,” both Charlie and Dean stared at Castiel, Charlie grinning widely. “If I don’t manage to crack anything today, we  _ have _ to watch it!”

“Crack something?” Castiel asked.

Charlie and Dean exchanged a glance before Charlie left to retrieve her laptop from another room. “Charlie’s trying to hack their system in earnest,” Dean explained.

“But security’s tight,” Charlie added, showing Castiel her computer screen, which, as far as he was concerned, was entirely unintelligible. “It might take a while for me to break through.”

“Which is why, in the meantime,” Dean said, sliding one of Charlie’s DVDs into the player and turning on the TV, “We’re gonna help jump-start your absolutely abysmal knowledge of pop culture.”

Castiel found himself allowing Dean to guide him onto the futon. The credits rolled, it became very clear they were watching  _ Star Wars _ , but Castiel couldn’t help but watch Dean instead. The way Dean’s eyes crinkled with joy at parts he enjoyed, the way he threw back his head and laughed, sometimes at the film, sometimes at Charlie’s comments, all of it was so very...human. No. More than that. Loveable.

How could his world have been thrown this askew in a week’s time? He’d gone from Michael’s  protégé to a vigilante, wrapped up in a world of questionable morals. And yet. Castiel couldn’t remember a time he’d felt this free. This  _ right _ . Was that Dean’s doing? His own? A combination of potentially unavoidable factors?

Dean slung his arm over Castiel’s shoulder and all thoughts ceased entirely.

The easy atmosphere vanished when Charlie’s computer beeped loudly towards the end of the movie. Luke had just began piloting his ship towards the enemy’s, though with Dean’s arm around his shoulders, Castiel had only caught bits and pieces of the plot. Both Dean and Charlie were very disappointed to be interrupted, Charlie pausing the film with a dramatic groan as she left to check the computer.

“Guys, you’re gonna have to see this,” she said a moment later, returning with her laptop.

“Did you find him?” Dean asked, removing his arm at last from Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel frowned, disliking this new turn of events, though he still leaned forwards to look at the computer screen.

“Yeah,” Charlie said, “We’ve got good news and bad.”

“Lemme guess,” Castiel said, “We have a location but it’s halfway across the world?”

“Nope. That’s where the good news comes in. Dick Roman’s  _ here _ .”

“Wait,” Dean interrupted, “His name is  _ Dick? _ ”

Now it was Castiel’s turn to stare with Charlie in disbelief at Dean. “Yes?” Charlie said, clearly caught off guard by this turn of events.

“He actually chooses to go by Dick?”

“...yes?”

“Wow,” Dean huffed a disbelieving giggle, “What an  _ idiot _ .”

The tension eased; Castiel and Charlie both broke into laughter at Dean’s reaction. Dean wrinkled his nose in confusion at their reaction, which only made them laugh harder. Castiel tried desperately to commit the moment to memory, unsure of how much longer he’d have moments like this. Trying to take on Roman was the biggest thing he’d ever done. Thinking of the logistics of the mission, the laughter died on Castiel’s lips.

“What’s the bad news?” Castiel asked, cutting Charlie’s giggles off as well. Killing the mood was something Michael would do. Apparently he hadn’t lost everything Michael had taught him.

“Right, well,” Charlie looked back and forth at them, “He’s leaving the country tomorrow night.” 

Castiel’s shoulders sank and Dean swore loudly. Of course. Of  _ course _ it couldn’t be that easy. It was never going to be easy, just the two of them, with limited resources, tracking down an extremely powerful businessman, but  _ now? _ Castiel was injured, his operation in shambles, and they had less than 24 hours to plan. Judging by the look on Dean’s face, he was coming to the same conclusion.

“We could always...wait?” Charlie added hesitantly, “He’ll come back into the country eventually and I can hack again. Find another company of his in the meantime to target.”

“It won’t matter,” Castiel replied sourly, “Roman’s the driving force of the company. Crippling a small portion of his operation would barely slow him down.”

“Not to mention, that bastard’s got access to a fully developed biochemical weapon,” Dean added, “That alone makes him target numero uno.”

“And you think two dudes in tight suits are gonna be able to put a stop to it?” Charlie asked.

“Two dudes in tight suits and one kickass hacker,” Dean corrected.

“Please, Charlie. You’re our only hope.” Castiel begged.

Charlie looked between them and sighed loudly. “Fine. But only because you used that  _ Star Wars _ reference.”

“That was a  _ Star Wars _ reference?” 

“Dude,” Dean groaned, “You’re killing me. We  _ just _ watched that.”

 

\---

 

The plan was simple enough in concept. Roman’s private jet lifted off from a nearby airfield at 10 pm, which meant, unlike when he was holed up in one of his buildings, Roman would be out in the open. True, he was slated to travel with a security detail, but, no matter where he went, Roman was bound to have security. It was the best time to strike.

Thankfully, there were a few things that worked in their favor. Hacking into the airport turned out to be child’s play, giving Charlie access to the cameras on site, as well as the ability to trigger a fake emergency warning. Both decided to wear their respective vigilante uniforms, Dean even retrieving his leather jacket, but to Castiel’s surprise, Dean opted out of wearing his distinctive red helmet. 

“It’s too well-known,” Dean said, “Potential civilians gotta know I’m not there to kill ‘em.”

He  _ had _ offered Castiel his Bat-mask though. Castiel had stared at the familiar shape, tracing his thumb along the ridges for a moment before setting it down. As tempting as it was, it felt wrong aligning himself to Batman. He’d have to earn that privilege back.

When it came to weapons, Dean had also amassed a stash of gadgets in his time as a vigilante, leaving Castiel to be fully equipped with a grappling hook and two working escrima sticks, while Dean favored the guns. 

The guns weren’t ideal by any stretch of the imagination, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

“I’m not gonna blow the brains out of some innocent secretary,” Dean said loudly over the roar of his motorcycle. Castiel clung to him as they raced down the street towards the airport. “These bullets are reserved for genuine assholes.” 

Castiel didn’t reply. A week ago, he would have seen the issue in black and white. Dean planned on killing, therefore Dean was evil. But after seeing the evil Roman was capable of, as well as the kindness  _ Dean _ was capable of, suddenly he wasn’t so sure. Besides, the point might very well be moot. They were both painfully aware they might be walking into another trap and Castiel was highly certain Michael wouldn’t come to save them.

And yet, here Dean was. Coming along with Castiel on a potential suicide mission just because he knew how important it was to try to stop Roman.

“It’s Castiel,” Castiel shouted back, tightening his arms around Dean’s waist as they rounded a corner. 

“What?”

“My name. It’s Castiel.” It was an oddly anticlimactic moment, he never expected to reveal it while on a motorcycle, but time was running out and Castiel sure as hell didn’t want the moment to have fallen in the middle of a fight.

“Cas-tee-el,” even sounded out, the name sounded right when Dean said it. Castiel couldn’t help but smile. “You’re right. That  _ is _ a weird name. I see why you go by Nightwing.”

“Very funny.”

Dean turned around for a moment, grinning back at Castiel. The motorcycle swerved slightly. “Look at the road!” Cas shouted, prompting Dean to turn around and lift the bike into a wheelie. “I hate you,” Castiel muttered.

“Sure you do, Cas,” Dean replied and although he was facing forwards, Castiel could practically see the smirk.

“Alright you two,” Charlie’s voice crackled over their earphone, “Enough flirting. We’re almost there.”

“Yeah, Clarence, it’s positively gag-worthy,” Meg added. Meg had been brought onto the mission when Castiel had talked to her after reviewing the plan, if nothing else than to make sure she didn’t rain hellfire onto Charlie if Castiel didn’t return from the mission. And Meg had basically bullied her way into the plan.

As a Demon, Meg didn’t plan on putting  _ herself _ at risk, but was more than happy to redirect some of the gang infighting to occur at one of Roman’s nearby operations as a distraction.

“Look, you’re almost to the airport,” Charlie said. Dean kicked up the speed on his motorcycle, they’d reached empty country roads, and it felt like they were flying. “With Meg’s distraction--”

“--You’re welcome,” Meg interrupted smugly.

“It cut Roman’s security detail down to six. We believe they’re well trained, though, and… _ oh shit _ ,” Charlie gasped, going silent.

“Charlie?” Dean’s voice held an edge of fear. They all knew it was possible that Charlie could be found out, despite Charlie’s many reassurances that she had it all under control. It was natural for Dean to assume the worst. Castiel did too. If something had happened to her…

“Dean, I’m fine,” Charlie’s voice, however, did not sound particularly close to fine, “It’s the, uh, it’s inside the airport…”

Castiel’s heart pounded in his chest. He could feel Dean increasing the speed of the motorcycle, the wind whipping past them so fast he could barely hear his own thoughts, much less Charlie. They were definitely close now, the last sign they whizzed past pegged the airport at 2 miles away.

“He’s got to know you’re coming…”

“Why?” Castiel’s voice was hoarse in the wind and fear. He was pumped up on a variety of pain medications in an attempt to feel his best. If they survived, he could worry about healing slowly, but until then, this was the best he had.

“He...Roman…” Charlie’s voice was brittle, as though she was trying to avoid crying, “He set off his monster chemicals. Inside the airport. On at least a dozen civilians and even two of his own men.”

The implications hung heavy. “ _ Shit _ .” Dean breathed, and Castiel echoed the sentiments.

“You can’t go around,” Charlie added, “The fences are electrified, too tall to scale. And you, uh, you can’t wait it out, either. Roman’s already en route to his plane…”

“What she’s saying,” Meg interjected as Dean and Cas zoomed through the parking lot of the small airport. They were headed right towards the glass doors without Dean showing any sign of stopping, “Is that you can’t go around sparing their feelings, Clarence. It’s kill or be killed.”

“That’s not true,” Dean assured him as he continued to accelerate, “But you gotta trust me.”

“I do,” Castiel said, and was surprised to find there was not an ounce of hesitation in the statement.

“Good,” Dean muttered, jumping the curb and then, with Castiel still holding to him, rolling off the motorcycle, landing them with some force into a planter box that served as decoration in front of the small airport entrance. The motorcycle, however, was going so fast it remained upright, slamming through the glass entryway. Castiel could feel Dean’s heart pounding against his chest. 

“Was that necessary?” Castiel asked, already feeling sore as he tried to get himself upright.

“Well, if nothing else it was a damn cool distraction,” Dean smirked, groaning loudly as he pushed himself to standing. Castiel groaned too, this would only add to his array of bruises, and readied his escrima sticks when Dean caught him by the shoulder.

“I meant it, Castiel,” Dean said, “I’ve got your back.”

Castiel wanted to respond, to thank Dean, when Charlie’s voice screeched into their earphones. “Incoming!”

Sure enough, two TSA guards were racing out of the smashed entryway, black veins bulging from their necks. One held a gun, the other seemed to have turned to favoring his teeth, as blood dripped down his chin.

“I need to remind you,” Meg added, “You have limited time to get to Roman. So don’t take your time playing fair.”

Dean gave Castiel’s shoulder a squeeze before pulling a pistol from his jacket. “Age before beauty?”

Castiel rolled his eyes before leaping into action, cracking both agents on the head with his escrima sticks. To his astonishment, neither went down, though they both growled angrily. One bit down on his arm. Castiel slammed the electrified end of one of his sticks into the man’s neck, which at least forced him to let go. “How do you know if I’m older than you?” he asked as Dean joined the fray, putting a bullet in the hand of the agent with a gun.

“I don’t,” Dean shrugged, tugging Castiel out of the reach of the agent and running towards the building. “But I know I’m prettier.”

Inside the building, the lobby was clear, aside from one civilian who’d been pinned under the motorcycle. “Yo, Charlie,” Dean said, continuing to run from the other TSA agent, “What’s the clearest route to Roman?”

“Uh. Staircase to your right. You’ve got a couple with suitcases towards the top, but they don’t look like they know how to fight.”

“Roger that.” 

At the base of the staircase lay a woman, already spitting up her own blackened organs. She growled weakly, but couldn’t seem to move. The black veins had spread up her temple. Castiel felt sick. “C’mon, Bat Boy,” Dean whispered gently, as they raced up the stairs, “You can’t save ‘em all.”

As they reached the top, Castiel could see the two Charlie had described, one man and one woman. Both wore tacky vacation shirts. The man was missing a hand, blood dripping from his stump as he advanced on the woman. At the sound of Dean and Cas reaching the floor, however, the both turned.

“Hate to put a damper on the vacation,” Dean said, shooting the man in the head, “But the real crime is those shirts.” As the woman lunged towards him, he kicked over a nearby suitcase, causing her to stumble before he put another bullet in her head.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to a shell shocked Castiel, “But you saw what that does to them. They wouldn’t be alive for much longer and…”

“I know,” Castiel whispered as they continued running down the terminal, “I, uh, I just never…”

“You won’t have to kill any of ‘em,” Dean said firmly as another crazed victim rounded the corner, this time one of Roman’s agents, “Your morality’s gonna stay intact if it’s the last thing I do.”

He fired a shot at the agent, hitting the man in the shoulder. It did little to slow the agent, who advanced at an even quicker pace after being hit. Castiel leapt forwards, sliding on the floor and tripping the man with two well-placed blows to the shins. The man went down, and though he tried to advance towards them by pulling himself along the floor, it was much slower going.

“Almost there,” Charlie said, “You’ll exit at Gate B.” Castiel ignored the other bodies he saw along the way, splattered with blood and the blackened goo from before. Dean’s jaw tightened at the sight of an older woman, a flight attendant from the looks of it, splayed out on the floor.

“He’ll pay,” Dean growled, “I promise.”

“Heads up,” Charlie added, as the ran out of Gate B and “Roman’s still got six men--”

Four exited the plane, filling the small jetway. Two of them had guns. Castiel jumped, his acrobatics skills coming in handy as he managed to wrap his legs around on guard’s neck, using gravity to send them both crashing down. As he did so, he plunged his crackling escrima stick into the leg of another. Dean swooped in next, sending a kick to the face of the man Castiel had in his legs.

A hit from one of the other men sent Dean’s pistol clattering to the ground. Without thinking, Castiel tossed an escrima stick to Dean, scooping up the gun to ensure none of Roman’s goons got it. A loud noise caught all their attention. The plane was taking off.

“Go!” Dean called to Castiel, panic evident in his green eyes. If that plane left the ground...Castiel didn’t want to think about it. He caught Dean’s eyes, all goodbyes caught in his throat as he could merely nod at him before slamming his sole escrima stick into the thigh of one of the men before racing into the plane before the door closed.

As he stumbled on board, the final two men stood up, pointing their guns at him. Castiel readied his sole escrima stick, gun hanging uselessly at his side, when Roman stood.

“Stand down,” he said, nudging both of the guards into seats in the small jet. When they sat, Castiel could get a view of Roman at last. He looked like the average CEO. Expensive suit, dark hair slicked down, a sharp chin. When he smiled, it was wide, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Nightwing, isn’t it?” he said, extending a hand, “Dick Roman.”

Castiel didn’t move. Roman glanced at his hands, shaking his head with a chuckle. “I see your hands are too full for a traditional handshake.”

There was a rumble, sending Castiel stumbling for a moment. Roman steadied himself by grabbing onto a nearby seat. “Oh, we’re taking off,” Roman said amiably, “That’s nice.”

“If you know who I am,” Castiel growled, “You know why I’m here.”

“Oh, right. You’re here to arrest me, right?” Roman laughed, “Beat up my men, cart me off to jail where I will have to pay bail and a lawyer so I can get back to my job in...oh, a month or so?” He shook his head, tutting, “Come now, Nightwing. You have to know this is an incredible waste of time and money, both on your end  _ and _ mine. So...perhaps we can come to an agreement.”

“An agreement? Are you serious?” Castiel was stunned. He’d known, to some extent, that many of the people that Batman caught ended up leaving jail early. Many criminals walked free. It was their second chance, Batman had argued. A chance to start fresh. But now, confronting Roman, Castiel found himself facing the possibility he’d ignored: some people didn’t change.

“In the end, Nightwing, aren’t we both fighting for the same thing? Control of the city? I could give you the means to achieve that.”

“Why try to kill me if you wanted to make a deal?” Castiel asked, steadying his feet as the plane picked up in speed. They’d likely be taking off soon. He wondered what happened to Dean and hoped he was okay. He tried to think about what Batman would have done in this situation. Castiel wasn’t sure. For the first time ever, he truly was calling all of the shots.

“It’s not the highest on my list of ideal outcomes,” Roman admitted, “But a good businessman knows how to work the word  _ compromise _ into his vocabulary.”

“You can’t think I’d ever agree to work with you.” Castiel’s gut twisted at the word ‘compromise.’ It sounded like something Batman would say, hell, it sounded like something the old Castiel would have touted. At the time it felt noble and pure. Now, however, it felt wrong. 

Everything did.

“Come now, Nightwing,” Roman sighed, as though the ordeal was between two CEOs at a desk, rather than being hunted down and confronted with weaponry, “You’ve grown sloppy. Cavorting with that lowlife, Red Hood? Growing disillusioned by Batman’s inane policies? I can make you great, Nightwing. Truly great, as you deserve to be.”

“At what cost?” Castiel’s voice trembled, his hands shook. The plane rattled, they were close to taking off now. Time was running out on a decision that could affect thousands of lives and for the first time, Castiel realized he wasn’t ready to call the shots. “I know what you can do.” 

“Nightwing,” Roman’s voice dipped, cajoling, “You and I both know, some people deserve the ends they meet.”

Castiel’s heart throbbed in his chest, his body ached.  _ Some people deserve the ends they meet _ . An idea, a terrible idea, began to form. “Did the women?” he demanded, dashing away tears at the thought of those he hadn’t managed to save in Roman Enterprises, “The children? You were going to experiment on them!”

Roman shrugged. “They were families of businessmen who were going rogue. If I hadn’t threatened their families, who knows what problems they could have caused? I don’t go around killing children for fun, Nightwing. I only make the necessary sacrifices.”

_ Some people deserve the ends they meet _ .  _ Only make the necessary sacrifices _ . The tears had stopped, the plan solidified. Castiel took a ragged breath, trying in vain to still his trembling limbs. What happened next felt almost out of body, detached and in slow motion. Castiel watched as he lifted his weapon, but not the escrima stick. The gun. Dean’s gun. 

“Then you agree you deserve this,” he said, his voice echoing in his ears as he fired.

The bullet hit straight through Roman’s forehead, freezing an expression of faux politeness as he toppled backwards. In horror, or perhaps it was just shock, Castiel allowed the gun to slip from his fingers. The other men were frozen too, evidently nobody could believe what had happened.

The plane shook again, but this time, shuddered to a stop. Everything stood still, Castiel trying to wrap his mind around what had happened as he stared down at Roman’s corpse, when the cockpit door swung open with a  _ bang _ .

“Cas!” Dean cried, stumbling, miraculously, out the door. He was bleeding in several places, long tears running down his jacket. From behind, Castiel could see the window of the jet had been shattered. Dean breathed a long sigh of relief when he saw Castiel, but it shifted into a gasp when he noticed Roman.

They shared a knowing look before Dean leapt into action, taking out both the guards with the escrima stick. A stunned Castiel stood and watched, still processing the whole event. It didn’t take long for Dean to knock both men unconscious, both were almost as stunned as Castiel. Next thing he knew, Dean was tugged Castiel into a hug.

“I thought you’d  _ died _ .”

Hesitantly, Castiel hugged back. The gunshot still echoed in his ears. “I feared the same with you.”

They stood together for a moment, Castiel allowing Dean to anchor him, before Charlie interrupted. “While I am  _ beyond thrilled _ you both survived, you gotta get out of there. Stat.”

Dean looked down at Castiel, a strangely worried expression on his face. Castiel frowned. He didn’t need to be pitied. They’d just stopped a powerful criminal, they’d both survived...the only thing standing between them and safety was getting out. He was not about to slow the escape down.

“How?” Castiel asked, pushing his...his  _ crime _ from his mind. Keeping Dean and himself alive and safe. That was what he had to focus on now. “We trashed our ride.”

“I’m actually en route now,” Meg announced smugly, “Keep an eye out for a hearse.”

“You’re driving a hearse? Seriously?” Dean said, rolling his eyes.

“I figured it would either be a fitting way to pick up your corpses, or a playful irony if you’d survived.”

“Thank you, Meg,” Castiel said, shushing Dean. He knew from experience the best way to handle Meg was to simply let her have her...quirks. Battling snark with more snark would only escalate the battle of wits, something he’d have to watch out for between Dean and Meg.

Wow. He was already planning for their future.

Another glance at Roman’s corpse killed any of the growing giddiness, however, and Dean had to help him out of the plane, explaining with excitement about how he’d managed to incapacitate three of the four men he’d been left with before taking a page from Castiel’s book and using a grappling hook to catch onto the plane. It was endearing, comforting, even, though there was still a numbness about Castiel.

With Dean taking the lead in their escape, the horror crept in.

Castiel found his feet stopped working, slowly collapsing to the floor of the airport atrium. He could see the body of one of Roman’s victims reflected in the shiny clean tiles, the black goo still dripping sluggishly from their lips. Roman did that to them. And Castiel killed Roman.

He had killed someone. There was no coming back from that.

The air seemed harder to breathe, thick and heavy. Every breath he tried to draw seem labored, his gasps filling the empty space with desperation. For a brief moment Castiel thought he saw Roman, alive and walking towards them, blood dripping from the bullet hole in his head. Panic truly overtook him as he realized he didn’t know if he really wanted Roman to have miraculously survived. The world seemed to spin out of control.

And then Dean’s hand was on his shoulder, grounding him. Helping him to his feet. Guiding a still numb Castiel towards the door.

“Murder’s hard to shake,” Dean said finally as they made their way out of the now silent airport. Roman’s poison had made it to completion with the few they’d simply knocked out, leaving a trail of ominous corpses. He gently took Castiel’s hand in his own as Castiel exhaled a rattling breath. Castiel held onto Dean’s hand tight. 

“I wish I could tell you somethin’ different, Cas. For people like you…” Dean hesitated, trying to find the right words, “You aren’t like me,” he finished, in a thought that made sense to him alone. 

“The thing is…” Castiel murmured, looking away, “If I could rewind...I’d still do it. Kill Roman. That...that makes me a bad man.”

“Hey,” Dean turned Castiel to face him, cupping Castiel’s face in his rough hand, “Don’t say that. I’ve seen you, Castiel. A bad man wouldn’t have the heart you do.”

“But, Michael--”

“Michael’s ivory tower morality is bullshit,” Dean replied, “The man you killed? He’s responsible for killing hundreds. Thousands, maybe. All to gain financial control over the city. You did it to make Gotham City safer.  _ And it worked _ .”

“But I…” Castiel whispered sadly, as Dean leaned forwards and pressed a soft kiss to Castiel’s lips. Unlike their other kisses it was gentle, tender. 

“You saved the day, Castiel. That’s what you did. And I will remind you every day of your goodness,” Dean whispered.

“Every day?”

“Well, I’ve found the lone vigilante lifestyle is a bit lonelier than I originally assumed. Plus, think of all the couple costumes we’ll inspire together for Halloween!”

Castiel cracked a smile as Dean slung his arm around Castiel’s shoulder. “Nightwing and Red Hood. It’s got a pretty nice ring to it.”

“Red Hood and Nightwing, you mean,” Dean corrected with a smile.

A horn interrupted them. “Yo, love-birds!” Meg called out of the hearse window. It gleamed in the light of the airport lobby and Castiel became slightly worried that she’d stolen it from an actual funeral. Or, worse, commandeered one from a procession. 

“Son of a bitch, she actually brought one,” Dean muttered.

“Still got the earphone in, Hot Stuff,” Meg said with a smirk as they both piled into thankfully empty hearse. 

“Thank you, Meg,” Castiel said pointedly as he guided Dean into the back. “And thank you, Charlie,” he added before turning the earphone off. They couldn’t have done it without her. Without either of them, really. It was pleasantly surprising, having an actual team to fall back on. He turned to find Dean smiling at him, eyes sparkling.

“We did it, Cas,” he whispered hoarsely, slumping against the side of the hearse. Castiel joined him, even daring to lean his head against Dean’s shoulder.

“So we did.”

The sorrow still seeped into Castiel’s heart, but it was slowly being replaced by something else. A warm sense that things would actually be okay. There, in the hearse, slumped against the man he’d once tracked down to put in jail, Castiel finally allowed himself a moment of joy.


	10. Epilogue: The Gang's All Here

Castiel was awoken  _ far _ too early by his ringtone, now the  _ Star Wars _ theme song. He groped around the bed for it, hand colliding with Dean’s face. “Sorry,” he muttered to an equally bleary Dean, who poked his head out of the covers in a motion akin to a groundhog.

“Is’it Charlie?” Dean slurred, still trying to wake up. “Tell her to go ‘way.”

“If she’s calling, she probably has good reason,” Castiel mumbled, fumbling on the other side of the bed for the phone.

“Hnngh, don’t leave the bed till we know for sure,” Dean grumbled, wrapping himself around Castiel, “You’re  _ warm _ .”

“Who knew the scourge of Gotham got cold so easily?” Castiel teased, finding the phone at last and answering it.

It had been six months since they’d taken out Roman. There had been a few in management who’d tried to take his place, both as CEO and crime leader, but between their lack of direction and the combined forces of Nightwing, Red Hood, and Batman, Roman Enterprises had eventually been forced to shut down completely.

Batman, to his credit, never stopped Castiel or Dean, though he never spoke to them either. It hurt. Dean refused to admit it, while Castiel clung to the slim hopes he could one day patch things up with Michael.

Surprisingly, there were people in his life to fill the void.

Charlie had enthusiastically agreed to work for them. She joked with Dean, talked strategy with Castiel and had even convinced them to agree to go LARPing with her in a month. Meg, too, had joined their group, though she’d staunchly demanded to be known as a freelancer. Didn’t want her street cred getting ruined over helping a couple of sops, as she put it. 

And then there was Dean.

Dean, who had a way with the kids they rescued that Castiel never did. Dean, who laughed at Castiel’s jokes and straightened his ties and gave all his guns names. Despite shooting Roman, Castiel hadn’t picked up a gun since the incident. He still opted to use his escrima sticks. Dean, to his credit, tried very hard to limit casualties, especially with people that Castiel hoped could be rehabilitated. 

And that didn’t even begin to cover the private moments they had together.

“Hate to wake you two cuddle-bugs,” Charlie said apologetically, “But are you available?”

Castiel stifled a moan as Dean began to press kisses down his bare back. “You’re playing dirty,” he hissed at Dean, covering the phone with the palm of his hand.

“When have I ever played fair?” Dean flashed a smirk at Cas as he dipped back under the covers to kiss the small of Castiel’s back. Shivers ran up his spine and he stifled another moan as he tried to speak to Charlie again.

“Can it wait?” Castiel’s voice was embarrassingly high and he even squeaked as Dean reached the band of his underwear.

“Gross,” Charlie said, “I do  _ not _ want to know what’s happening right now. I’ll text you the coordinates. You’ve got five minutes of...whatever. I don’t even wanna know.”

The line went dead as she hung up. Castiel dropped the phone. “We’ve got five minutes before we have to be fully dressed,” he said, tucking under the covers to press a kiss to Dean’s lips.

“Are you sure we have to fight this crime in clothes?” Dean asked between kisses.

“Dean _. _ ”

“Alright, alright. How about just our underwear?”

“ _ Dean _ .”

“Fine. How long do we have?”

“Five minutes.”

Dean smirked. “I can make do,” he said, dipping below the covers once again.

Yeah, things were pretty good in Gotham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all so much for reading!! Make sure to give my artist, [thepoette](https://thepoette.tumblr.com/), some love on Tumblr. And come say hi to me at [castielsunshinegrace](castielsunshinegrace.tumblr.com)!


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